


Flowers from a Sidewalk Crack & Two Cents from a Dead End Skiv

by wallflowers



Series: Soft Memory Errors [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Bounty Hunters, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Other, Platonic Sex, Poetry, Pre-War, Queerplatonic Relationships, The Dead End - Freeform, The Origins of the Decepticons, This is before Megatron met Terminus so it's set very early on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowers/pseuds/wallflowers
Summary: Drift thought he'd seen everything down in the Dead End. What he hadn't seen as a skiv he'd seen as a streetmech, and what he hadn't seen as a streetmech, he'd seen as a gun-for-hire. Then he receives a job offer with a bounty too large to ignore. The mark? Megatron, as in "electron", as in the bomb. A miner, from Tarn. The crime?Poetry.Or: Four and a half million years ago, a bounty hunter from the Dead End met a miner who fancied himself a poet, and that alone changed everything.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Megatron, Drift | Deadlock & Ratchet, Drift | Deadlock & Ravage, Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Impactor & Megatron (Transformers)
Series: Soft Memory Errors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810837
Comments: 125
Kudos: 179





	1. Eulogy for the Phlegmatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [Warsaw - Dessa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99Tp-64DZ4A)

**[4th Cycle, 499]**

As a general rule, Drift spent as _little_ time as he could get away with in the “hunter den”, an inconspicuous oilhouse that served as the base-of-operations for the Underground’s bounty hunters. There were a few reasons for this — he couldn’t stand most of the other members of the Underground, the engex was swill, and it was nearly on the other end of the Dead End from Ratchet’s clinic. As a result, Drift tended to be a bit ‘out of the loop’. Whereas other mechs paid attention to the dead pool in hopes of bagging the largest bounty they felt they’d be successful in taking on, Drift showed up on rare occasion, took stock of what was currently posted, and generally did as many jobs as he could pull off before other bounty hunters started beating him to it or he just ran out, which brought him back to the den. Repeat.

More often than not he passed on the top-tier bounties; all the top hunters vied for them, and the infighting wasn’t worth the effort when Drift could cobble together just as much money from putting together smaller bounties and taking care of them quickly. So, for the most part, he didn’t care.

However, when Drift showed up at the den this time around, he could tell something was off. The den was oddly empty for the hour, and from the mechs still around — Killgauge, Axel, Emmishot, Oilslick — the air was nearly-vibrating with excited tension their fields held. Immediately, it put Drift on edge. 

Axel, who was sitting at the bar, glanced at Drift as he came to look at the board where the dead pool was posted. The small rust-colored mech snickered into his drink.

“Guess you’re just as greedy as the rest of us after all, then,” the kid said. “Couldn’t resist a bounty that high, huh Drift?”

“Which bounty?” Drift asked, warily. 

“Don’t look at me, it’s right there on the board.” Axel’s expression turned wry, his field gooey with indulgent malice. “Oh, that’s right, you can’t read it can you? Good luck finding ou—“

Drift grabbed Axel’s collar faring and hauled him out of his seat, shoving him against the wall and pinning him there. He sneered in the bot’s face.

“ _Tell. Me,"_ Drift demanded again.

“Okay, okay! _Primus_ are you always this much of a—“ Axel grunted as Drift jostled him harshly, shying as far away from Drift as their proximity allowed, his field sickly with nerves. “Megaton! The bounty is for a guy named Megaton! Two m-million credits. They want him _dead_ -dead.”

 _Two_ **_million_ ** _credits?_

“Who are _they?_ ” Drift snapped. “What’d he do?” 

“Fuck if I know,” Axel said flippantly, then quickly backtracked as Drift’s field blackened dangerously. “I don’t! I swear! T-they’ve got him wanted for ‘agitation’. I swear I don’t know anything else! Promise! Killgauge, tell him!”

Drift glared at Killgauge as Axel desperately waved in the dull-green bot’s direction, trying to get his attention. Killgauge gave them a bored look.

“Always the brute Drift,” Killgauge drawled. “I think the kid’s shaken his struts loose there.” 

“Killgauge, back me up!” Axel whined.

Killgauge finished off his drink, and shrugged. “It’s genuine. Two mil’ in the dead pool.” 

Axel shrieked when Drift dropped him abruptly. The small bot scrambled away as Drift stalked over to Killgauge, having never dropped his glare. Killgauge leaned back in his chair, eyes raking over Drift’s frame in a way that sent a strut-deep disgust through him that he would _never_ give Killgauge the satisfaction of knowing. 

“And why’d I trust your word?” Drift asked lowly. 

“Because, _Drift_ , I want to go in on the bounty,” Killgauge lifted a finger and tapped Drift on the breastplate, grinning when Drift immediately flinched away from the contact, “with _you_.” 

Wait. What?

“With me,” Drift reiterated.

“You’re the best the Underground’s got,” Killgauge stated simply. He leaned in close, his grin widening. “And you ain’t hard on the eyes _'sweetspark'._ What’s it gonna be? Million each?” 

Killgauge’s smile dropped, immediately backing off when the shiv Drift kept in his wrist appeared at the other bounty hunter’s neck with the quiet _shfft_ of sliding metal.

“What—” Drift sneered, “—makes you think I’d want to go in with _you?_ ”

“Well I can _read_ , for starters,” Killgauge stated. A low-blow, his usual incendiary attitude rearing its ugly head once more at Drift not yielding. 

“Cute,” Drift said. The shiv disappeared and he turned on his heel and stalked away. “Have fun gettin’ killed.” 

Killgauge shouted some insult after Drift that he only half-heard as he ducked out of the hunters’ den and into the street market that bustled outside — probably telling him to go back to being a buymech or something, as though that’d have any impact, let alone just after Killgauge himself admitted to Drift being the best the Underground had. Drift scrubbed at his own arms, feeling as though there was grit under his plating. He could ignore it. He could ignore it.

Killgauge was lucky Drift hadn’t punched him in that disgusting, smug grin of his. Drift shook his head, weaving his way through the crowd and forcefully turning his thoughts to the bounty.

_Megaton, wanted for agitation. Two million._

What would he even do with this kind of money? He supposed he could bribe Killgauge to shut up for a month, maybe, if he was lucky. Maybe hire someone to kill him. _Drift_ could kill him, and pay off anyone who had a problem with it—

Stop. Stop thinking about murdering Killgauge. Killgauge wasn’t _allowed_ to get under his plating like this.

Two million. Drift could pay off Fuse's debt, just so Drift could stop seeing the mech's rhumey-eyed grin-and-bear-it expression as he unattractively cocked a hip under the flickering corner-streetlight that Drift passed while quietly making sure the Ratchet made it to the shuttle-stop unmolested. Pit, with this amount he could hire proper security for Ratchet, not that the good doctor would ever accept such charity. 

Drift wasn't stupid. Despite his loathing for the mech, Killgauge proposing they went in on the bounty together made sense. The job was shady; too little to go on paired with too high a bounty. "Agitation" as a crime meant nothing to him. But the shanix were a heady temptation, and the prickle of curiosity at the back of his mind persisted, bothering him. _Distracting._

He gave in to the impulsion a day later, with the reasoning that he could in the least track this "Megaton" down and see what the fuss was about. No one had yet reported the bounty as fulfilled nor voided it, so Drift felt he could assume that Megaton wasn't dead. Yet.

A called-in favor, a threat, a syk hit and a well-placed bribe and an elevator ride up a few levels later, Drift found the wanted mech in the outskirts of Iacon; in an old oilhouse, sipping on his energon alone as he poured over a datapad. Drift lingered for a moment, scrutinizing the mech from a distance. Broad-built, probably twice Drift's height when standing. Gunmetal grey, with a handsome profile. Young. So young. A miner, if the hazard tape he wore was anything to go by.

_Now who would place such a high bounty on a miner, and why?_

Years later, Drift [in a moment of self-irritated regret, one of many] would blame the curiosity that question inspired for his completely impulsive decision to walk to Megaton's booth and easily swing into the seat across from Megatron. Had he not done that, the next, oh, _four million years_ would've gone much differently. But hindsight is only for the past, and in the present, the gunslinger from the Underground was intrigued by the young miner that someone desperately wanted dead.

Megaton had been too absorbed in tapping away at his datapad to notice someone sat across from him. He startled when Drift loudly drummed his fingers on the tabletop, gaze snapping up to meet Drift's with wide optics.

“You fight?” Drift drawled.

"I... excuse me?" Megaton asked, politely confused.

“You'd do well in an arena with a frame like that,” Drift said. “Ever thought of bein’ a gladiator, Megato—“

“Mega _tr_ _on_ ,” the mech corrected him. “It’s Megatron. As in ‘electron’. Like the bomb.”

 _Like the bomb._ Interesting choice of words.

Drift stopped drumming his fingers in favor of leaning back against the booth seat.

“So?” Drift prompted.

“No,” Megatron replied, lifting his hands warily, palms forward. Unarmed. “I don’t want violence. If you're trying to recruit me, I’m not—”

“Huh, see now that’s interestin’,” Drift interrupted, the Dead End brogue lazy on his tongue an acute contrast to how he held himself — aware, ready to strike. In control. “Interestin’, because here a lil’ rat told me that you’re a wanted mech. Says it’s for ‘agitation’. Doesn’t sound like a mech who isn’t lookin’ for a little violence.”

“You’ve read it?” Megatron suddenly seemed… excited? His optics brightened, and the wariness his frame held had unfolded into openness. "Violence isn't the intention, but the demand to be heard is. If we can reach the people, the majority, we can begin to build a coalition, a voice that's too loud for them to ignore—“

Something that Drift said clearly had set the mech off on this inspired tirade; which was all well and good except Drift had no idea what the hell he was on about.

“Read what?” Drift snapped, cutting Megatron off. The miner paused.

“The treatise,” Megatron said, slowly. “The… one you’re referring to? About Nominus?”

“I’m talkin’ about the bounty on your damned head."

“Ah.” Megatron deflated. “That.”

“Oi, don’t look so damn pathetic.” Drift jabbed a finger at Megatron. "Your whatever isn't so damn special that it'd stand out from all the other slag I can't read."

Megatron frowned, then frowned deeper, his features growing troubled as he seemed to consider Drift's words. It looked strange on Megatron’s face to Drift — the miner was so _young._

"I'm sorry it's probably rude for me to ask but— you can't read? At all?" Megatron asked. 

"Nah." Drift crossed his arms and shrugged. "Never could, never learned. Not just me. Most mechs where I’m from can’t. You won't be gettin' very far with your 'will of the people' slag if you're relyin' on treatises and those long, fancy-written words."

“Where you’re from?”

“The Dead End. Take my word for it, miner. You ain’t at the bottom ‘til you end up there.”

In the time that Megatron visibly contemplated this, Drift reached over and stole the energon cube the miner had been nursing. Megatron made no effort to stop him as Drift took a long drink, draining it nearly halfway before lowered it from his lips, fingers still curled tight around the stolen cube.

"So," Drift said, "is that why someone wants you dead? You wrote a long fancy thing?"

"I suppose so," Megatron said. He seemed... sad, almost, in a peculiar way that bothered Drift for a reason he couldn't pinpoint. "I'm... a poet. This is the first I've heard of anyone wanting me dead."

 _A poet._ Huh.

"What's it about? Your thing.”

"It's a condemnation of the caste system," Megatron said, "and a proposal of a fairer society through a peaceful restructuring led by the majority class on Cybertron. I thought that perhaps, with perspective on how it would benefit all of us, the Senate included, we could bring the conversation to them..."

"And now they want you dead," Drift concluded, because who else would it be, really? At least he understood the "agitation" part now.

"It seems so."

Drift used the moment to re-seal the cube and subtly stash it away into his subspace, the motion hidden by him leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.

"You're not gonna reach 'em speaking a language they don't," Drift said. "Just like you're not gonna reach folks who can't read what you're sayin'. The mechs in charge of this whole thing? Their language is violence. They won't hear you. But look on the bright side sweetspark, here's some good news: I decided I'm not gonna kill you. So enjoy the time you've got." 

Because, two million? With a number like that, Megatron wouldn't be around much longer.

Drift stood from his seat, a hip cocked against the table lip as he looked down at the miner. "Chances are we won't be meetin' again. You’re a poet or somethin’ — put your words to good use and write yourself a nice obituary. And give 'em pit on your way out, eh?"

He only made it a few steps across the room before Megatron called out after him.

"Wait!" Megatron had partially stood out of his seat, stopped by his bulk threatening to tip the table over entirely. He had a hand reached out towards Drift, bidding him to listen. "May I at least know your name?"

"It's Drift," he replied.

"Drift," Megatron repeated, then nodded, a strange expression on his face. "Thank you."

Drift nodded in turn, then scoffed and sauntered off, pointedly ignoring the unsettled feeling in his chassis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come bother me on tumblr: weapon-up-wallflower


	2. Page of Concrete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [Fighting Fish - Dessa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxsCavRD7H0)  
> [Know It Ain't Right - M.I.A.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GD8pmlk_mWw)  
> 

Megatron was consumed.

Since meeting Drift of Dead End, he’d been unable to stop thinking about what the killer-for-hire had said; about Megatron supposedly having a bounty on his head, certainly, but more than that, about being unable to read. About most mechs from the Dead End being unable to read. About how Megatron, if he wanted to reach these mechs, needed to try something different. It had eaten at him until he’d gone out of his way to purchase an old audio-recorder during his off-shift, which he then had to repair, which he then had to _re-_ repair after he did it wrong the first time around. 

It had been unusual; reading aloud, to himself, in whatever quiet corner of the mine he could find on the breaks between shifts. His voice had been weak at first, but strengthened as he grew more comfortable, the later recordings hindered less by him stumbling over his words and more impassioned. He couldn’t edit the audio—he lacked the means, the recorder capable of only writing directly to a battered data slug plugged into it and little more. It wasn’t perfect—it could be much better—but it achieved what he’d hoped it would. What it needed to.

Megatron spent his surface time over the last five deca-cycles wandering the Dead End, asking around, trying to find the enigmatic hunter. Progress was slow-going; the shuttle commute took up much of the time, allowing him only a short while to actually spend in the Dead End. He didn’t mind too much; the commute gave him time to write. Witnessing life in the gutters of Rodion eroded at what remaining naivete Megatron had. He understood what Drift meant about rock-bottom; it was a hopeless place, without compassion or opportunity. Mechs in the Dead End had less than nothing, stealing the will to live in scraps from the haze of drugs and the fuel in one another’s veins. It was a coin toss, whether energon deprivation, the Enforcers, or the rust would get you first. 

Drift of Dead End was, as Megatron discovered, a bounty hunter associated with the agnominated Underground. What that meant, Megatron didn’t know, but it became easier to know what questions to ask. 

A buymech who was skeptical that Megatron _just_ wanted information was the one to let him know that Drift frequented an area around where the slum bordered Praxus, around a back-alley medical clinic not far down the way, in exchange for a cube of energon.

“Don’t tell him I told you though,” the mech said, after he’d quickly stored the energon cube in his subspace, looking around rapidly to ensure no one else was around to see. “He doesn’t like to be bothered.” 

“I don’t even know your name,” Megatron said. 

“Let's keep it that way.” The mech shrugged. “Good luck findin’ him.”

Megatron didn’t get the chance to do so until a fair bit later, as he had back-to-back shifts followed by Impactor deciding that Megatron needed to spend his surface time on the off-shift getting slag-faced with him and some of the others. By the time Megatron had made it back to the Dead End, he’d feared that the information had grown stale. It seemed so; he’d had no luck finding Drift through the next deca-cycle. His next off-shift would be the last he’d spend in the Dead End, he told himself. His presence there was beginning to garner too much attention; mechs were starting to recognize him.

In the end, he didn’t find Drift—Drift found him, with claws hooked onto Megatron’s arm plating as he dragged the miner into a side alley for some semblance of privacy.

“What are you _doing here_!?” Drift hissed, quiet and bristling. “You have a bounty on your head, or did you forget that?”

"Someone told me that you spend time in this area," Megatron said haltingly. "Something about a clinic?"

Suddenly Megatron was forced to tilt his head back as something was shoved beneath his jaw, unrelenting, digging into the metal there. Drift’s field was alive with violence and something else, something softer caged within that ire. Tender of the hurting kind.

“If you’ve told anyone, or if you tell anyone—your superiors, your crew, _anyone_ —about the clinic or the medic,” Drift growled, “I _will_ shoot your processor to bits and gladly take that two-million credits on your head. Got it?"

"I don't know anything about the clinic, just that there's one nearby I assume," Megatron said quickly, his hands raised—unthreatening. "I won't say a word. I promise."

After a moment of scrutiny, Drift stepped away. The pressure on Megatron's jaw released, and he looked down to catch a glimpse of a gun in Drift's hand before it disappeared into a compartment in the mercenary's thigh. 

Megatron rubbed his jaw, considering. He'd already known Drift to be serious when he'd talked about scoping the apparently-hefty bounty on Megatron's head, but somehow it hadn't occurred until this moment that with Drift's dark presence and intense, sharp-edged loveliness came the fact that he was deeply, undeniably dangerous. 

"If there's a clinic down here," he said, "I take it a good mech runs it."

"Yes." Drift shifted, then looked at him, irritated. "What do you want, Megatron?"

"I was looking for you, actually.”

“For me.”

“You told me you can't read—" Megatron cringed as the words immediately sounded wrong.

"Oh come to rub it in my face, huh?" Drift drawled. "Real nice."

"No! No, that wasn't my... intention..." Megatron's words trailed off as he noticed Drift's lips quirked in a wry smirk. The gunner snorted, apparently having fun at Megatron's expense. Megatron's vocalizer clicked a few times as he reset it, flustered. 

"I made audio recordings,” Megatron continued. “Of the treatise, and some other works. You told me my words wouldn't reach the people who need to hear them through writing. So I read them aloud. I wanted you to hear.” Megatron held out his hand— the data slug looked dainty nestled in the wide expanse of his palm. “The quality is— I had to do them between shifts and you can hear the drills running in the background sometimes, and I kept getting interrupted so they're badly...”

Megatron fell quiet as Drift plucked the data slug from his hand, turning it over in between his fingers. 

"Well. Now I feel like an aft for threatening to shoot you in the processor a 'click ago," Drift said begrudgingly.

“I understand the sentiment,” Megatron said.

Clearly the clinic, or perhaps the medic, was important to Drift. Megatron may spend much of his life deep underground, only surfacing on the brief recharge stints between long shifts and scant, mandated surface time, but he knew well enough that a clinic in a place such as the Dead End would be… perhaps not illegal, but not approved of by the Senate, and those two things may as well be the same. The Senate, who, if Drift was telling the truth now wanted Megatron dead.

Violence wasn’t the answer, but he was beginning to see where Drift’s skepticism came from.

“Still, you didn’t answer me,” Drift said. Curling his fingers around the data slug, Drift stalked forward, into Megatron’s space. The miner instinctively shuffled back, but Drift kept approaching, pressing him back.

“I didn’t answer…?” Megatron’s back treads hit the alley wall with a dull thud.

“You told me why you’re here.” Drift tilted his head. He lifted a finger and tapped on Megatron’s chassis; Megatron felt a slight sting as Drift’s claw left a shallow cut on the scuffed metal. “I asked, Megatron. What. Do. You. Want?” 

“I…” Megatron’s vocalizer clicked loudly as he reset it. Drift’s amber optics smouldered beneath the dark metal of his brow plating. 

Since their encounter at the oilhouse, the frail-framed mech haunted his thoughts like a spectre. A killer, who had dissected Megatron’s work without reading it; scrutinized him as though he were trying to turn Megatron inside-out, to spill his organs and figure out how he ticked amidst the gore. Drift was beautiful. Drift was dangerous, a weapon carved by the sort of life the mechs of the Dead End suffered through. 

In that suspended moment, Drift had held Megatron’s fate in his servo. Megatron had little doubt that Drift could kill him. Yet, without having read a single word Megatron had written, he was let go, left alive. Without having read a single word. Megatron wanted him to hear those words. He wanted to show Drift that he didn’t need to settle for a life of fear, violence, and stolen pleasures. He wanted to be the one to plant that seed, to usurp his doubt. 

He wanted Drift.

Drift’s fingers slowly curled around his collar faring, threatening. He’d taken too long to answer. 

“I want your opinion on the treatise,” Megatron lied. “That’s all.”

“Whose mind are you trying to change—yours, or mine?” Drift asked.

“Depends,” Megatron replied. 

Drift snorted, and released Megatron, stepping away. His presence was heady, and the sudden lack left Megatron feeling light-headed. 

“You realize what askin’ after a bounty hunter when you’re wanted for _'agitation'_ looks like, right?”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” Megatron said. “It doesn't make much difference. I already have a bounty. But if someone wants me dead for what I said, that means I have something they don’t want being _heard_. Which to me makes it more important that it is.” 

“Wisened up there a bit, haven’t you, poet-boy?” 

“You left an impression.”

Drift seemed to consider something for a bit, then sighed. He grabbed Megatron’s wrist, yanking it up so the miner’s palm faced up, then put something in the miner’s hand. 

“Here,” Drift said. When Drift’s hand moved away, Megatron could see a small COM-chip nestled in his palm. “Download my frequency. You askin’ around for me is only gonna stir up trouble, and I get the feelin’ that isn’t going to stop you from doing it. So next time you want to come slum it in the Dead End, _comm me first_. And _don’t_ ask around for me.”

“Thank you, Drift. I’ll—” On some idle whim, Megatron checked his chronometer, then re-checked it, then swore and panicked. “ ** _Slag!_** Slag, I have to go.” 

“Late?”

“More than. I can’t make you listen to those recordings,” Megatron gestured to the data slug still in Drift’s hand, "but I hope you do."

With that, Megatron left Drift in the alley and ran off, back to the shuttle, to the mines, the work, the isolation, the pain he was about to be in from his overseer. It would be much later, in the ending hours of his shift, that he would wonder if Drift had listened to the recordings or if the gunner had simply tossed the data slug as soon as Megatron was out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Megatron during this point in his life is weird. Reminder that this is when he is _super_ young; this is pre-Terminus, pre-Whirl, pre-Orion Pax. This chapter is kind of short. I might fuss with it later - I'll leave a note at the start of chapter 3 if that's the case.
> 
> Come bother me on tumblr: weapon-up-wallflower


	3. Mark These Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a heavy chapter - heed the tags.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [Angel of Small Death & The Codeine Scene - Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bmp4QWzHak)  
> [Lovely - Billie Eilish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMfpp0-lnw4)  
> [ Sedated - Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_JUReD3QoE)

“So? What did you think?”

“I think you have better things to be doin’ with your time than slummin’ it in the Dead End. You’re turnin’ into a gutter tourist.”

“Drift.” Megatron had the audacity to sound _disappointed._

They were sitting in the loading bay of an abandoned factory, in the hollow frame of a garage threshold whose door had long since fallen off. It was quiet enough—not many mechs wandered into the industrial district of the Dead End, for a number of reasons. Convenience and resources, more than concern for safety. Drift had given co-ordinates when Megatron had comm’d him hoping to meet and let the miner translate that into an actual location on his own accord. Drift was a little surprised he’d showed, but Drift making himself inconvenient to seek out never seemed to work. A turbo-rat sniffed at the ground a few paces away. It scurried off when Drift kicked gravel at it. 

Drift huffed a laugh. “Don’t worry, poet-boy, I gave it a listen. I’m only a lil’ bit in, though. Got to the part where you’re talkin’ 'bout that one guy. Whats’isface.”

“Tintop? Riggs?”

“ _Mm-hmm_. Him. First one.” Drift took a drag of his cy-garette and looked at Megatron out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll be honest, even though it’s goin’ over my head a bit I’m likin’ what I hear. Wordin’ is a ‘lil flowery sometimes, an’ I gotta rewind it to try and pick apart what you’re talkin’ about. It’s good though. Real good.” Another drag. “I can see why they want you dead.” 

Megatron’s words were… enduring, would be a way to put it. Drift hadn’t given them much weight when he first listened, but found himself thinking about it cycles later, running it over in his mind. They were persuasive, convincing. Something about them didn’t sit right with him.

“I was thinking about hosting readings, on my surface time,” Megatron said. 

“Readin's?” Drift asked.

“Similar to the audio recordings, except in person. I thought it’d be a more effective way to engage others—a conversation, instead of a lecture. Perhaps it would help me with making my words less ‘flowery’.” Megatron cocked his head. “Would you come to one?”

Drift turned to look at Megatron properly, taking in the miner’s naive hopeful expression. 

“No,” Drift said. Megatron’s face fell. 

Still, he pressed. “And to convince you to reconsider I would need to…?”

“Megatron. I work for the people that are _trying to kill you,_ ” Drift said flatly. “I might’ve not decided to off you. I might’ve gave your fancy words a listen. Sure, I was a lil’ impressed. But that don’t mean that someone else won’t kill you. It don’t mean that I won’t step aside and _let them._ ”

In that moment Drift knew what it was about Megatron’s writing that didn’t sit with him. The irritation was quick to follow, flaring now that it had something to eat away at. The words were leaving his lips before he had time to reconsider them—or maybe they’d been buried there the entire time, festering.

“You want my two cents poet-boy?” Drift snapped. “In the gutters, we don’t have time for your slag. We don’t have time to _think_ or _write_ or _ponder._ Here, it’s every mech for themself. If you’re lucky, you got a crew, but even that’s on rusted screws in the thick of it. Talkin’ bout some mech who’s greyed an' turned to shrapnel might do somethin’ for you. It might do somethin’ for your buddies in the labor class. It don’t do _slag_ for us. What do we fuel on, Megs?”

“I—what?” Megatron fumbled, thrown by the abrupt question and Drift’s rapid-fire anger.

“What. Do. We. _Fuel. On,_ ” Drift repeated, on a sneer. 

“Ener—”

“ _Energon._ We don’t fuel on words, we fuel on _energon_. When you’re starvin’, you don’t give a slag about words. You give a slag about energon—where you gonna get it, who’s is it, how you can _take it for yourself._ When you need rest you don’t give a slag about words, you look for a place where someone won’t cut your lines in your recharge. Your fancy-written words are good. They’re real good. An' they are _worthless_ without _offering an out._ So tell me, Megs, while you’re talkin’ your way into convincin’ the Senate to give a damn, _what is the Dead End going to fuel on?_ ”

Megatron stood still as a stone in the headlights. Drift let out an irritated click.

“You’re no better than any of the other mechs slummin' it in the Dead End for a high.” Drift jabbed his servo into the center of Megatron’s chest. “You answer that ‘fore you show your face here again.”

Drift didn’t look back as he stalked away, leaving the miner behind to linger with his fancy, flowery words and self-important idealism. Drift’s pace picked up, a quick walk turning into a run. The kid was going to learn the hard way. Drift’d gotten too involved, gotten too soft — he didn’t want to see the smear Megatron would leave on the asphalt when it hit. And now Drift was late—he should have been at the clinic a joor ago. Swearing, he began to run, tearing through streets of the Dead End with a ticked-off thumping of pedes on the asphalt.

* * *

The Dead End clinic was closed up by the time Drift reached it, the one front window dark and the street abandoned. As he suspected, Ratchet had already locked up and went home. Drift paused in front of the clinic door, lingering, wondering if he should go check the route Ratchet took to the shuttle-stop, just in case. Which was stupid. Ratchet was probably fine. He was probably already home. Probably.

Drift reached out and touched the clinic door. It gave under the pressure of his fingers, the latch clicking softly as it opened.

Immediately Drift bristled, looking around him rapidly.

The street was empty. The clinic was closed up. It wasn’t locked. Had Ratchet forgotten to lock it? Did someone break the lock and had robbed the clinic? Was Ratchet safe? 

He released the shiv he kept hidden in his wrist, hiding it between the curl of two fingers. Quietly, Drift pushed the door open, peeking inside. The clinic was dark inside, the lights turned off. Nothing seemed disturbed—everything was in its place, no sign of a fight or any struggle. A stream of light crept out from the crack under the closed storeroom door at the far end of the clinic. A shadow swept across the floor. Someone was in there, moving around. 

Drift crept through the clinic, around the medberths. The shadow returned, and Drift stilled, coiled and waiting. The storeroom door opened, revealing a very beleaguered Ratchet. 

Ratchet turned on the lights, startled, and threw a wrench at Drift with a shout. It hit the medberth. 

“Slag, kid, are you trying to give me fuel pump seizure? You scared the struts out of me,” Ratchet wheezed.

Drift stood from his hiding place behind the medberth, hands raised apologetically, his shiv hidden away once more.

“Sorry doc, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What do you think you’re doing creeping around here like that?” Ratchet demanded.

“The door was open. I thought someone might’ve been tryin’ to rob the clinic.”

“You and me both.”

“I wasn’t,” Drift immediately replied. “I swear I—”

“It’s fine kid, I know. Don’t worry about it.” The medic waved him off.

Drift sat lightly on the edge of the berth as he watched Ratchet putz around the clinic, opening one cabinet, only to close it when seemingly satisfied and move onto the next. 

“What’re you doin’ here so late?” he asked. “Normally the clinic is closed by now.”

“The clinic _is_ closed,” Ratchet stated. “Sort of. I’m restocking supplies.”

“Workin’ overtime doc?” 

“This entire clinic is me working overtime.” Ratchet glanced at him. “Something’s bothering you.” 

Drift tapped a tuneless rhythm against the edge of the berth. Ratchet straightened the folds in some warming tarps. He took one out and undid it completely, refolding it to better fit in the storage space. 

“I yelled at someone who probably didn’t deserve it,” Drift admitted finally. 

“So apologize.”

“Can’t.” Drift’s nose wrinkled. “’s not that simple.”

“Really?”

“I can’t apologize ‘cus I’m not sorry for what I said. Not really. He needed t’hear it. Don’t like the way I put it though.”

“Then whoever it was can grow a backstrut and suck it up, and you can start helping me organize all this,” Ratchet said.

“Don’t remember offerin’ to be your janitor,” Drift groused, but he pushed away from the medberth and followed Ratchet regardless. The doctor led him into the clinic’s storeroom. Drift had never been in here before—the storeroom’s door was usually shut and locked. Closed to patients. 

“If you’re going to loiter, you’re going to help,” Ratchet said. “Work, then fuel, and then you can go sulk about doing whatever else it is you normally do.” 

_What will the Dead End fuel on?_

Drift hadn’t realized he’d halted until Ratchet gave him an odd look.

“Are you feeling alright, kid?” Ratchet asked.

“Yeah, uh—yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothin’.” He shook his head and crouched down beside Ratchet, who was digging through an open storage crate. Ratchet didn’t seem convinced, but he handed Drift a medipacket anyway—a little clear plastic bag containing an individual dose of some sort of treatment. Drift glanced in the crate; some bags held chips with antiviral coding, some oral medications, some intravenous additives. He could see that Ratchet had begun sorting them into storage in a weighted, reinforced cabinet that was bolted to the wall of the storeroom. Drift switched the topic. “How’ve you been doin’, doc? No one’s givin’ you trouble are they?”

“I have some new 'neighbors' apparently that have claimed this area as their ‘turf’." Ratchet made air-quotes with his fingers. "I was forewarned though, and the clinic’s been fine so far.”

“ _Uh-huh_.” Drift made note of that for later as he looked over the already-shelved contents of the cabinet and tried to pick out whatever organizing system Ratchet had going. 

“Top shelf. It’s sorted by name—” Ratchet swore, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Slag. Sorry kid, that’s on me. Here, switch places.” Drift moved as Ratchet shoo’d him, giving the doctor space to get to his feet and moving to sit on the warm spot on the floor he’d just occupied. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” 

“Maybe you should work less,” Drift offered honestly. He took a packet from the crate and gave it a curious once-over before placing it in Ratchet’s waiting hand. “You seem tired.” 

“I’m fine,” Ratchet groused. “Just wasn’t thinking.” 

“So who tipped you off ‘bout your new 'neighbors'?” Drift asked.

“Fuse.”

Drift hummed. “An’ you’re not worried about them givin’ you trouble?”

“They haven’t yet. It doesn’t mean they won’t. But I can handle myself.” 

“I’m sure you can,” Drift replied lightly. 

In his pro cessor Drift was already trying to figure out how to put aside the time to make sure Ratchet made it to-and-from the clinic safely, if he had enough credits to pass on the next round of bounties. Rent was soon. His landlord hiked the price because he’d gotten himself entangled with some druglord. Maybe he could offer to kill the slagger in exchange for his room being free for the next few rent cycles.

_Or you could go for broke._

“By that I mean I can handle walking home by myself,” Ratchet stated pointedly.

“Course you can, you do it all the time, don’t you?” Drift cocked his head and feigned innocence. Ratchet rolled his optics and crooked his fingers impatiently. Drift handed him another medipacket, feeling oddly guilty. 

_Two million could purchase a hell of a lot of safety, couldn’t it? Think of all the mechs that could help, for the price of one._

"Shut it,” Drift muttered. 

“Excuse me?” Ratchet said.

Drift glanced up at Ratchet, startled. “Nothin’. Just talkin’ to myself,” Drift said quickly.

“That’s it.” Ratchet put down the packet he held. “I’m giving you a scan.” 

“Seriously, Ratch, I feel fine.” Drift sheepishly held out his hands in a pacifying manner to ward him off. Ratchet grasped them and pulled him to his feet instead. 

“You might feel fine but you’re worrying _me,_ ” he said, leading Drift to sit on a berth. “Do this to shut me up if nothing else.” 

Drift sighed. He held out his arm and triggered the lock on his diagnostic panel anyhow. He felt Ratchet plug in and begin to run through the information as it was transferred to him, but Drift was preoccupied watching Ratchet. Felt safe enough to let himself be preoccupied watching Ratchet. The medic scowled frequently—the faintest hint of permanent creases were beginning to show at the top of his nasal ridge from it; so were creases from laughter at the corners of his eyes. Drift felt that said more about Ratchet than anything else.

Drift watched Ratchet, thought about the lines and creases of life, and tried not to think about the traces of syk still in his system that Ratchet was about to find.

Drift could see it, the klik Ratchet got the readout.

"Drift..."

He hadn't braced himself well enough at all, really. 

There were no accusations, no admonishment. Instead Ratchet let out a soft ex-vent. 

"You'll come here if you ever need help, right?" Ratchet said instead, and somehow that was worse.

"Sure, Ratchet," Drift lied. "I will."

Ratchet nodded, and Drift knew he didn't believe him. Ratchet never believed the slag Drift tried to sell him. Drift didn't know if he was comforted by that or if it ticked him off more. 

“Well you don’t have a rust infection, or anything you didn’t already know about,” Ratchet stated. He unplugged from Drift, spooling up his diagnostic cord and tucking it away as he wandered over to the energon dispenser. After a long moment of fussing he returned with a cube of warmed med-grade, laced with chrome shavings to give it some sweetness. 

"What about...?" Drift jerked his thumb toward their abandoned effort over by the lockbox cabinet. 

“It can wait," Ratchet said.

Drift took the cube Ratchet handed him. He wondered who the comforting was for, more—Drift, or the medic who couldn't heal the ills that made up life in the Dead End.

* * *

Drift was halfway to his hole-in-the-wall rented room when he saw the mech curled up on the streetside. Beneath the flickering light, always the flickering one. Didn't matter which light, or where they were. It would always flicker.

As he neared, Drift could see he was shaking—the emotional sort of shaking. The harder sort of shaking to endure.

"Fuse?" 

Fuse didn't respond. He kept his face in his hands and kept weeping. Drift didn't ask what had happened. You didn't ask in the Dead End, because the answer was always 'you don't want to know', and you never did want to know. 

They'd all gone their separate ways after Gasket's death, their little found family of sorts. Good things never last. Scrimp was likewise dead, and no one had seen Pinprick in long enough to assume the same. Fuse had found himself protection—the sort that left your cycles numbered and made the remaining ones pit to live through. 

Fuse let out another quiet sob, and Drift surrendered trying to pretend he didn’t care.

"Come on, sweetspark," Drift said softly, wrapping an arm around Fuse's waist and helping him to his feet. "Come on." 

Drift brought Fuse back to his room. The mech had stopped crying by the time Drift laid him down on the thin tarps he had piled on the floor, but he wasn't much more responsive. Drift locked the door—five locks, all soldered there by hand the moment he'd put in a payment—drew the shade, turned off the lights and laid down beside Fuse. Drift didn't push Fuse away when he curled close and clung, simply running a comforting hand across his back. Drift couldn't get involved. There was only so much pain a person could take. Drift couldn't heal Fuse, anymore than Ratchet could heal the Dead End. But he could give Fuse a safe place to recharge, no cost, just for the night. A scrap of kindness was all that's left to offer when the rest was stripped to the strut. The wound left by Gasket still ached.

_What will the Dead End fuel on?_ He didn't know how Megatron would answer that question. 

He didn't know how to answer it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come bother me on tumblr: weapon-up-wallflower


	4. Caveat Emptor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning: This chapter features an instance of "locker-room talk" containing a disturbing account of exploitation, discrimination against sex workers, and in-universe derogatory language. Please continue at your own discretion.
> 
> Other warnings for this chapter are: siphoning, referenced/implied prostitution, referenced/implied drug use.
> 
> Other notes: a "trick" is a term historically used by sex workers referring to their clients.
> 
> Thank you [rookerrogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rookerrogue/pseuds/rookerrogue) for beta'ing this and catching my tense-switching crimes.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [How - The Neighborhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYlb9wPptQo)  
> [Muddy Waters [Live Session] - LP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6SprGmHTy4)

Megatron hadn’t been scheduled with Impactor in a fair while, so finding his friend waiting at the end of his assigned tunnel at the start of his next shift was a pleasant surprise. The shifts always went shorter when there was someone to talk to. Miners who didn’t make idle conversation were either new or had been there for a long, long time, and had said all the words there were to be said. They preferred to sing, the old miners. They’d taught Megatron every song he knew. 

Impactor was Megatron’s closest friend in the mine—differences in literary taste aside, they got along just fine. Talk was easy with Impactor. Anything that crossed the processor was fair game: recent news of the mine closures elsewhere, the threats of automation the Senate continued to make and not act upon; Impactor reminiscing on when the space heaters were still employed in the mines with their good company, good sense, and literal warmth, before they were pronounced disposable; a brief foray into the recent poem Megatron had been working on that Impactor quickly decided was too boring; a recounting of the fight Impactor nearly got into during his last time out of the mines.

“So, what _have_ you been doing with your surface time?” Impactor asked, in between swings of his pick. “When you made that comment about not wanting to drink away all your surface time I didn’t think it meant you found something _better._ ” 

Megatron had mulled it over—whether or not he’d tell Impactor. He'd felt it something best kept to himself, initially. Now that he was presented with the opportunity to share what he'd been spending his time on, what he'd been _learning_ , perhaps... perhaps telling Impactor would be worth the risk.

Megatron readjusted his grip on his pick. “I’ve been going down to the Dead End."

Impactor’s swings stalled. He shouldered the tool, and Megatron’s optics widened as Impactor leaned close.

“You don’t look like you’re high,” Impactor said, scrutinizing him. 

“I’m not. I’m sober. It’s not for anything like that," Megatron protested.

Impactor let out a low whistle that instantly told Megatron he’d misunderstood. 

“So our dear Megatron’s chasing shareware in the Dead End.” Impactor almost seemed impressed as he returned to working, his tone conspiratorial. “Is it as wild as rumor has it? Some of the guys say they’ll do anything you ask for the right price.”

Megatron stared at his friend.

“Tonne said a friend of his had one of them begging for his transfluid,” Impactor continued, casually, unbothered by the horrific scene he described. “He said they fuel off of it, that they say it's sweet. Can’t get enough of the taste.”

_What will the Dead End fuel on?_

“Stop it,” Megatron protested faintly. “I don’t want to hear this.” Drift came to mind before he could stop the thought from manifesting, on his knees, lips parted. Megatron felt like purging.

“You should try it, next time you’re down there. See if you can get them to—” 

“ _STOP IT!_ ” Megatron slammed his pick into the rock and turned on Impactor. “What is _wrong_ with you? They are _starving._ How can you even think to joke about something like that?”

“Megatron, they’re just some cheap whores,” Impactor said. 

“They’re _people!_ What, are you so separated from them that it makes talking of them that way _fine_?”

“Who do you think you are!?” Impactor demanded, his own anger now rising to meet Megatron’s own. “I’m _nothing_ like the gutter-trash. They’re _perverted._ They’re there because they _want to be_. Where the fuck do you get off comparing hard-working mechs to those fucking filthy siphonists!?”

“Where do you _think_ the mine's heaters ended up, Impactor!? WHERE DO YOU THINK THEY ARE!?"

The trailing echo of Megatron's words rang through the mineshaft, singing in the abrupt silence that had fallen between them. Megatron stared Impactor in the optic. Impactor grimaced uncomfortably.

Then he sneered. “You know what your problem is, Megatron? You need to learn to take a fucking _joke_.”

They continued their shift in an angry silence; Impactor fuming, Megatron disgusted and regretting he hadn’t punched Impactor in the moment. They broke away from one another the moment the bell went off, signaling the shift changeover. Megatron sought out one of the deserted tunnels, half-dug and given up on when it became clear there were no veins of energon along that way. He sat, back to the rock, and retrieved a datapad from his subspace. Turning it on, he looked over the old words he’d written there. 

When they first met, Drift had told him that he wouldn’t be at the bottom until he ended up in the Dead End. Megatron realized now that his statement was manifold—that he hadn’t solely been speaking about life in the Dead End on its own. It was how others viewed the mechs who lived in the Dead End, regarded them with a pervasive cruelty that they used as a self-reassurance. You weren’t at the bottom if there was still someone else you could kick to the curb. 

Drift’s ire from the last they’d met was well-earned. Megatron felt mortified at his own presumptions; he wanted to find the gunner, tell him he was sorry, insist that he didn’t see him that way. He couldn’t. It'd be a lie. Megatron had pursued Drift with the intention of reaching the gunner—of _persuading_ him, of making him understand—when Megatron himself was the one who should have been listening. If the system operated as Megatron had assumed it to, his prescriptions made sense. However, as Megatron read over his old writings now, all he could see was the blatant flaws in his thinking, the sheer ignorance laced into every word. 

Megatron deleted the contents of the datapad. Faced with a blank slate once more, he began to write, the weight of Drift’s words looking over his shoulder like a ghost. 

* * *

It was raining. Drift watched as the acid made the road hiss, listening to the _tink tink tink_ as it landed on the tin awning above his head.

Of course it was raining. 

He continued to pick his way down the street, determined to not let the rain stall him completely. Sprints between one shelter to another were punctuated by harsh swears as the acid stung his plating and feet. He was being stubborn, and he knew it. When the burning in his pedes became too much to ignore, he took a longer rest, under the cover of an old loading dock. Most of the street was dark, but light shone weakly from the cracks beneath a few doors. Not many, but a few. One of them was nestled beneath the same awning Drift was loitering beneath, but it was the familiar voice, not the light, that drew him to the open doorway. 

He lingered on the threshold, taking in the sight—a smattering of mechs from all walks of life in the Dead End, crowded in the old warehouse, in the hazy light of an oil drum set aflame. There was a wooden raised platform in the center of the room, hobbled together from scraps. On it was none other than Megatron, sitting on the edge of the stage. He was not speaking out over the audience that had gathered, but rather to them, as though they were swapping stories over energon. A conversation, one that Drift had wandered into the middle of. A mech near Megatron asked him something—Drift couldn’t hear from the doorway. He shouldn’t get involved. He gave the room once last look, then turned to leave. 

Just as he was stepping away from the threshold, he caught a glimpse of familiar plating out of the corner of his eye. Someone in the crowd stepped forward, and he lost his line of sight. Drift ducked into the room, weaving his way through the mechs clustered around the stage. The crowd parted, and Drift saw him again. Loathing immediately infected his field.

Killgauge.

In the otherwise quiet of the room, Megatron continued to speak to the mechs who stood around or sat on the warehouse floor by his feet, listening intently:

“Establishment necessitates the subtle corruption of the self. They have convinced us that there is an order, to these things. That by some vague decree, the worth of an individual is established by the circumstances of their birth. Yet, in contradiction to their own tenants, there is always more to be lost, and that once these things are lost, they cannot be regained. They have so thoroughly propagated the ideals of Functionism into every thread of our society that the preservation of the self overrides the empathy we may feel for the less fortunate—even the most well-intended mech will, at times, take comfort in his station, so long as there’s someone who’s lot is worse, and feel pride at the work he has done to maintain his station. When he sees a stranger he doesn’t think, _‘What are they like?’_ he thinks, _‘What are they for?’_ He asks; _‘Where are they positioned in relation to me? How do we compare?’_ He looks at the less-fortunate mech to tell himself, _‘At least I’m not him’_.“

Drift couldn’t help but listen to Megatron as he kept out of Killgauge’s sights—the miner had something about him, a way with words and the raw charisma to back it up. Drift shook it off, chastising himself for not focusing, and cautiously looked for other mechs he may recognize. One Underground killer _could_ be a coincidence, as much as Drift doubted it. 

Someone shouldered Drift lightly. The unexpected contact had him bristling, stepping away. The mech whispered a quick _sorry_. He needn’t have bothered—Drift had him to thank for spotting Tune-Up.

One could be a coincidence. Two was foul play.

Drift needed to get Megatron out of here, quickly, while somehow not exposing himself. He glanced behind him—the rain had stopped, from what he could tell. Good.

“It is a hollow comfort, predicated on the suffering of others, because that suffering is a constant reminder of what there is still to be lost—what can be _taken away,_ " Megatron continued, unaware of either Drift's presence nor the danger he was in. "The Dead End is both overlooked, ignored, and constantly, quietly, kept in mind. We think of the Dead End as a cautionary tale. Morbid curiosity brings the more fortunate down to these streets, and revulsion repels them—revulsion of the self. Guilt. An unforgiving awareness of the abuses that perpetuate the system and how little has been done for it. To question the framework is to see the crude welds, the rust in the rebar, the broken spine. So the gutter tourist goes home, and thinks one thought before he willfully forgets: _‘At least I’m not them.’_ "

Drift cupped his hands around his mouth and took a deep breath. 

“I count myself among the mechs who I criticize,” Megatron admitted, and Drift’s breath caught. It stuck there, heavy, as though someone had laid a hand on his chassis and said _wait._ “I came to the Dead End out of a morbid curiosity. And someone here, someone far wiser than I, asked me a single question— _‘What will the Dead End fuel on?’_ In this he asked: Who will be sacrificed in order for a more pleasant insurrection to take place? Who will be overlooked? How can this be prevented, and _can_ it be prevented? Who gets to determine this? I don’t have an answer to his question yet. But I have come to realize that if change is to be enacted, the comforting lie—the lie I lived in, until I was asked this question—must end. We must look at the framework, at the spine, as the Dead End sees it, for the twisted, rusting thing it is. Not only should the Dead End not be forgotten, but you must be the ones we support and look to when we say ‘enough’. There is comfort in familiarity—to question, to change, is to fear. If Cybertron is a society of worth by function, what of those who are said to have none?”

Megatron had listened to what Drift had said, had taken it to mind. 

Drift saw Killgauge reach for his gun.

“ENFORCERS!” Drift shouted. “EVERYONE SCATTER! GET OUT!!”

If there was one thing that could've so easily pulled mechs out from the infatuation with Megatron's words and charisma, it was the threat of being arrested. Instantly the crowd fled. Drift forced his way through the throng of mechs scrambling over one another to get away, toward Megatron, who’d left the stage but now hesitated, uncertain of where to go. He flinched as Drift reached out and grabbed his wrist. When he saw it was Drift, he smiled. The idiot. 

“Time to go,” Drift said. 

Tune-Up and Killgauge were caught up by the mechs fighting one another to get out the front door. They wouldn’t be able to line up a shot amid the commotion, giving Drift time to smuggle Megatron out through the loading door on the other end. He kept his head down, kept Megatron blocking their line of sight in hope that they wouldn’t recognize who was leading Megatron out of the fray. He wouldn’t know until later if his efforts were successful.

Apparently Killgauge felt the risk of an innocent mech getting caught in the crossfire was worth it; five shots rang out in the enclosed space. Drift swore and released Megatron’s hand, praying the stray gunfire hadn’t hit anyone. They made a run for it, the miner following him out the back door and into the Dead End’s claustrophobic shambles. They kept running.

They were near the industrial district where he’d last seen Megatron when Drift finally stopped. He looked at the miner, keeled over, struggling to catch his breath. Tense, for a moment, before Drift broke into a crooked grin. They both laughed, breathlessly, their frames still pinging from the heat of exertion. 

“You showed,” Megatron said. He was still smiling. 

“I just happened to be 'round.” 

“How much did you hear?” 

“Heard enough,” Drift said with a shrug. “I thought you weren’t comin’ ‘round here no more.”

“I’m sorry,” Megatron said immediately. “I know you told me not to. I don’t know how to answer your question. And I’m sorry for ever thinking I could. I want to. But I can’t. I understand that now.” 

“Megatron—” 

“I meant what I said — meaningful, lasting change can’t happen without you. I want to create a society that won’t forget you, or anyone else here. Drift, I don’t know what you’ve suffered through, or what life is like down here. I won’t pretend to know. I want to help. I want to change it, properly. I can’t do it alone. I need you here.” 

Drift put a hand over his face, laughing softly; sudden, bitter, and harsh. And to think for a moment he thought Megatron had finally gotten it through his thick helm.

“Why? _Why_ do you care?” Drift demanded. “What is your… your _fixation_ on me? You don’t even _know_ me, Megatron, I—”

“You care,” Megatron said. “That’s why I care.”

Drift stared at him in disbelief. “Megatron, I’m a _hitman._ I _murder people_.” 

“You listened to me, and you left me alive, even though you should have killed me and taken the money. You’re protecting the medic of a clinic that gives out free care, making sure it’s a place that people can reach. You’ve stopped more than one incident where things could have turned very, very bad.” Megatron looked at him sadly. Drift knew exactly what Megatron was alluding to. He looked away, staring down at the asphalt to avoid meeting Megatron’s optics.

“Who told you?” Drift asked warily. 

“The... streetmechs speak well of you," Megatron said, the pause as he searched for the most respectful term to use obvious. "Many people do.”

Drift huffed in mirth at the thought of Megatron nervously talking to any of the Dead End prostitutes. They must’ve had some mercy on him, considering he wasn’t spat back out as shrapnel.

“Don’t mean nothin’,” Drift said. He felt exhausted.

_You know well how many people’s lives two million would make a difference for, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. For what, some fancy words?_

_You’re making the same mistakes again._

Megatron must have picked up on Drift’s inner turmoil, because he hesitantly placed his hands on Drift’s shoulders, prompting him to look up at the poet.

“What can I do to convince you?” Megatron asked, gently.

“Why’re you doin’ this?” Drift asked in return. 

“For as long as I can recall, I’ve wanted to be a medic. I can’t, clearly—no one would trust a medic with tank treads to be skilled enough to fix them, and the Senate would never allow me to study independently or even humor the thought. I can’t help in the way I would, given the option. So I have to find another way.”

That was… unexpected. Drift hadn’t known what he would get from asking that question, but that certainly wasn’t it.

Drift sighed, shrugging Megatron’s hands off. 

“You can’t help me,” he said. Turning on his heel, he began to walk off. After ten-or-so paces, he looked over his shoulder. “I’ll think ‘bout it.” 

He walked away, leaving Megatron to find his own way home, and Drift alone with his own thoughts.

* * *

He was being followed. He’d changed course the moment he realized—instead of returning to his apartment as he would’ve, he’d wandered, aimlessly leading whoever pursued him through the desolate streets of the Dead End. When they reached the red light district, Drift turned into an alleyway bordering a brothel. He stopped beneath the weak light that hung over the brothel’s alley door and looked behind him. 

He couldn’t see anyone, but there was someone there.

“How long’re you gonna follow me?” he prompted.

Silence met his question. Drift crossed his arms and waited.

A small beastformer stepped out of the shadows. If pressed, Drift wouldn’t have been able to offer any idea of where he may have been hiding. Drift watched him warily as he padded closer. The mech alighted the steps leading up to the brothel door, his black plating shifting as he settled, sitting back on his haunches. Drift realized he recognized the mech from Megatron’s reading. He’d been sitting near the miner’s feet.

“I nearly was trampled back in there,” the mech said. “So thank you for that.” 

“Petty grudge to stalk someone for,” Drift retorted.

“Then I’m petty.” The mech gathered his pedes beneath him and stretched his backstruts languidly, tail lashing. 

“Uh-huh, sure. An' I’m the Senator of Petrex. Get talkin'.”

The mech chuffed, his field mirthful.

“You were at the rally,” he said.

“Rally?”

“What else would you call it? You were there.”

“You heard them,” Drift said lightly. “There were Enforcers comin’. Sittin’ in a jail cell isn’t my idea of a good time.” 

“There were no Enforcers,” the mech said. “But there were three bounty hunters.”

Drift had his gun out and leveled at the mech’s head at _bounty._ The beastformer scrambled back and to his feet.

“Hear me out,” the mech said.

“You’re treadin’ on thin ground,” Drift growled.

“You smuggled Megatron out. He has a bounty of five million credits on his head.” 

“Two million,” Drift corrected.

“Five. It was raised.” 

_Five million credits._ Whoever wanted him dead was getting desperate, and Drift’s impulsive move at the rally—at the _reading_ —may have just made him a hell of a lot more enemies than he’d bargained for.

“How do you know any of this?” he demanded.

“I work for the people who want him dead,” the mech explained. “You’re part of the Underground. You have a reputation. I want to know why it’s worth it to stick your neck out for him.” 

“What, so you can report everything I say to…” Drift gestured vaguely, “whoever?” 

“Do you like who you work for? I’m askin' for _me_ ," the mech countered. The hint of Dead End brogue caught Drift off-guard. "I heard what the miner had to say tonight, and it made _sense._ ”

Drift considered the mech, closely. He lowered his gun. The safety stayed off. 

“You’re feelin’ out where to place your credits,” Drift deduced. 

“I want to know if Megatron is _worth the risk,_ or if his words are just more posturing. I’m asking for your input. They’ve raised the price, because if it isn’t fulfilled soon they’re worried he’s going to become too _controversial_ to kill. That he’ll become a martyr. I can help you stall it long enough that they will give it up and he’ll make it out of the other side alive.” 

“What’s your name?”

“Ravage of Stanix.” 

“What’s in it for you, Ravage?” 

“You have working optics and a processor. You tell me.”

Ravage may have more _mobility_ than Drift did, for all he knew. He might be able to travel to places that Drift couldn’t. But he was a beastformer. That would make life hard enough on its own, made worse by the fact that Ravage seemingly favored his alt-mode if this encounter was anything to go by. Drift was already in the slag-heap; he might as well keep digging down and see if there’s something worth it underneath. 

“He’s gettin’ there. He listens,” Drift said. “Can’t say if I thought he was worth it, up until now. I told him I wouldn’t stop them from killin’ him, an' I meant it then. I can’t tell you what to think. I threw my credits in—will it pay out? _Eh_." He shrugged. "Might just get me dead.” 

Ravage seemed to consider Drift’s words, then nodded.

“I appreciate you not shooting me,” Ravage said.

“Wouldn’t thank me yet. I haven’t taken it off the table,” Drift replied. “That’s on you.”

“Fair.”

The beastformer stretched once more, then leapt away into the shadows without another word. When Drift was certain he was gone, he leaned against the wall of the brothel and let out a shaky ex-vent. 

He was screwed. _Properly_ screwed this time. There was no getting out of this one. The reality of the situation hit him all at once like a shuttle at full-speed. He wondered if this was how Megatron felt—for all Drift had flouted the rules, he’d done so with relative anonymity. If Ravage had been lying about anything, Drift might’ve just brought the Senate down on his head. On all of their heads. The Dead End would suffer from much more than the Enforcers who harassed them regularly. 

Drift shuffled out into the street. He was glad he’d wandered to this part of town—it had been a while since he’d spent time with the streetmechs he used to work with. Chromantic and Missit would undoubtedly welcome him with open arms, happy to see him still in one piece, and he’d be able to see if Fuse was alright. He had too much on his mind; he could use the warmth of a friend, and the sweetness of someone’s lines or some circuit speeders, whichever was offered.

Chromantic had messaged him cycles ago, saying they’d gotten off the street, gotten a room in a brothel, and that Drift should come see them sometime. He’d been pleased to hear it—a room was safer than working in the street, even if you did have someone looking over your shoulder all the time and rent to pay. He hadn’t gotten the chance to take up Chromantic’s solicit; finding the address again took some digging and more wandering. 

It wasn’t one of the nicest places the Dead End had to offer, but it was a far cry from the worst. Drift didn’t get much of a look at the main room; a cry came from somewhere near the bar, and there was Missit, picking his way around the other working mechs and whatever patrons hadn’t made it up to the rooms yet. Missit latched on to Drift, giving him a squeeze, before he pulled away to call out over his shoulder. 

“Chromantic you better not be workin’, look who came to say hi!” 

Chromantic, who’d apparently been lounging on one of the loveseats facing away from the door, peeked over the chair-back and immediately abandoned it in favor of greeting Drift. 

“ _Look at you_ ,” Chromantic cooed, pulling out of the quick embrace he’d wrapped Drift in but still holding onto Drift’s hands as he looked him over. “That doctor’s been takin’ good care of you—you look so _strong._ You could sweep me off my feet!” 

“An’ you’re still pretty as a picture. I like the new paint,” Drift said. 

“You noticed!” Chromantic released one of his hands, lifting Drift’s other hand above his head so he could twirl himself, showing off the pale blush of paint he was now wearing. It was already beginning to scuff at the edges, but the color was delicate and it suited him, complemented by accents of a deep charcoal. “I felt like indulgin' a little,” Chromantic said primly. “Here, come, come.” 

Drift didn’t resist as Missit and Chromantic herded him onto an unoccupied couch in the corner, piled high with fraying pillows. Missit tossed some out of the way so they could sit. 

“You have to tell us what you’ve been up to,” Chromantic said. 

“Gettin’ into trouble, mostly,” Drift said.

Chromantic laughed. “That’s our Drift.”

The moment was ruined when a stranger wandered over to them, leering in a way that had Drift’s plating immediately bristling. He grew increasingly tense as the mech neared them, until the stranger stood in front of them, too close for comfort. Drift’s plating was clamped down tight, a coil of something ugly sitting heavy in his chest. 

“You offering?” the stranger asked, looking Drift over hungrily.

“You want your fuel pump shoved down your intake?” Drift growled. 

Chromantic immediately started on damage control, apologising and complimenting the would-be customer in turn. Missit ran a comforting hand over Drift’s arm and shoulders, the gentle touch persuading him to loosen his clamping plating some. A mech Drift didn’t recognize coaxed the stranger to join him, leaving Chromantic to rejoin Drift and Missit. 

“That’s our rent you’re scarin’ off,” Chromantic chided, tweaking his finial. 

“I’m sorry,” Drift said honestly. “I’ll pay for it.”

“What, with all the credits you’re makin’ now? You start spoilin’ us and we’ll get lazy.” Chromantic dragged over a divider screen, setting up in front of the couch to give them some privacy. The electric light through the red screen washed them in rosy hues. 

“Lay off him, would you?” Missit said. He scrounged up a cy-garette from his subspace, ignited it, and took a puff before offering it to Drift. “Who cares anyhow? I’d be fine with being lazy for once.”

Drift took a deep drag, letting the drug subdue him. Missit didn’t ask for it back. 

“I think it’d kill me,” Chromantic said as he settled on the couch once more, wrapping his arms around one of Drift’s own. His familiar touch alongside Missit’s helped further temper Drift’s unease. “’Sides, I like payin’ my own rent. The landlords can rust in a gutter for all I care—gives me a feelin’ of fulfillment though, affordin’ a roof over my head.”

“Where’s Fuse?” Drift asked.

“He’s workin’ I think. Hasn’t been ‘round much, recently. He told us what you did for him though. Real sweet of you.”

“I kept tellin’ the others our Drift’s still there under the mean,” Missit quipped. “What ‘bout you, sweetspark? You holdin’ up okay?” 

“I’m fine, Missy,” Drift said. 

“You look worn out.”

“Yeah, well, the Underground’s like that.”

“You work with some right fraggers,” Missit said, grimacing. “One of ‘em keeps trying to haggle with us. The utter lack of respect, Primus help me. Next time he comes around here he’s gettin' a pede to the aft.”

“ _Oooh_ but you should have been here earlier, Drift. There’s this miner who’s been comin’ round these parts. Handsome as all, and a right gentlemech,” Chromantic said. 

“He’s not also givin’ you trouble, is he?” Drift asked. 

Missit shook his head. “No, he’s payin’ for our time plenty. He just wants to talk though. Asks us a whole lot ‘bout life ‘round here—too curious for his own good.”

That certainly sounded like Megatron. The idiot. Drift smiled softly and shook his head, his optics off-lined.

“Chrom’s just complainin’ ‘cus he wants to frag him,” Missit added.

“Comes in _here_ lookin’ like _that_ and says he don’t want none.” Chrom sighed melodramatically. “It’s a _tragedy._ ”

They lapsed into silence. When the conversation didn’t pick back up, Drift on-lined his optics to find Missit and Chromantic both scrutinizing him closely.

“We’re sorry sweetspark,” Chromantic said. “We started runnin’ our mouths the moment you got here. You came here for somethin’ didn’t you?” 

“I’m fine.” Drift rubbed at his optics. “Just tired. Been thinkin’ too much. Too much I gotta think about.”

“Anything we can do?” Chromantic asked.

“You got any syk to spare?” The words came out so quickly that Drift immediately felt flustered. If he were the sort to blush, he'd be doing so.

Chromantic looked at him, pitying, and shook his head. “You told us not to let you use.” 

“Please?”

“Not even if you asked nice. You told the good doctor you were gonna try quittin’.” 

“ _Fuck._ " Drift put his face in his hands and groaned. He was incensed for a nanoklik, then the fury was gone, as quick as it came. He knew his field had probably broadcasted it all. “I appreciate you holdin’ me to it. Really.” 

Missit patted his arm. “No harm done. We know how it is.” 

“We can help you not think for a little,” Chromantic offered. 

It was tempting, but Drift felt bad enough about the syk as it was.

“It’s fine. I’ll be alright.”

“It’s no trouble,” Chromantic said, head tilted, looking Drift in the optic. 

“…If you’re offerin’.” Even as Drift said it, Missit was already shifting. Leaning back against the couch arm, he guided Drift to sit propped up against Missit’s chassis.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Drift muttered. Missit’s legs bent, pedes planted on the couch beside Drift’s thighs. Drift willingly let himself be handled as Missit maneuvered Drift’s legs so they were slung over Missit’s.

“ _Shh_.” Chomantic crawled between Drift’s spread legs. He plucked the cy-garette from Drift’s lips and gave him a gentle kiss, running a light touch over the exposed cables of Drift’s inner thighs. Drift broke the kiss with a sharp in-vent. “You work hard enough. Let us know if there’s anything you don’t like?” 

Drift nodded. Chromatic smiled and pecked his cheek. He moved to nibble along Drift’s neck, sharp teeth flirting with the sensitive plating along the edge of his helm. 

Missit’s hands covered Drift’s own, lacing their fingers together. He embraced Drift, tucking Drift’s arms around himself as well as Missit’s own—lightly restraining, not trapping. Drift’s engine immediately revved. 

“Good?” Missit asked, with the hint of a chuckle.

Whatever he was going to say in response was forgotten as Chromantic pressed a kiss to his panel. The plating retracted aside. Drift’s hips twitched at the warmth of Chromantic’s breath on his valve. Someone elsewhere in the room laughed, reminding him how flimsy their privacy was. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to stay silent. Even so, a low whine escaped as he felt Chromantic’s lips part from the kiss to his anterior node, leaving it throbbing with need. Chromantic smirked, pleased with himself, and giggled when Drift shot him a dirty look; he didn’t say anything about how quickly Drift had gotten revved up, though. It was hard to find anyone you could trust enough to ask for what they were willingly giving him now.

“Help him out?” Chromantic prompted, glancing at Missit.

Missit untangled one of his hands from Drift’s. His hand disappeared out of Drift’s field of sight for a moment, before returning, wrist plating pried aside by his teeth, exposing the scarred fuel lines. Drift hesitated, uncertain. This wasn’t something that they offered tricks. 

“It’s alright,” Missit coaxed. With his hand that was still interlaced, he gave Drift’s hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s for you, sweetspark.”

Missit let out a quiet huff as Drift’s fangs sunk into his lines. Drift cradled his wrist to his lips, careful as he indulged in the sweet, musky taste of energon from another’s veins. Missit moaned softly, tightening his arm around Drift’s chassis and curling around him. 

Chromantic’s mouth moved lower, parting Drift’s folds with his lips to lave at his sex. Drift arched into his mouth with a helpless groan, muffled by Missit’s wrist pressed to his lips. He didn’t last much longer. Missit held him tight as his overload took him; Chromantic eased him through it and coaxed him to another, gentler peak. He retreated, giving Drift’s node one last cheeky kiss that left Drift’s legs weak. 

Drift pulled his teeth from Missit’s lines, gentle as he could. His throat felt hoarse—siphoned energon tended to have that effect. He pinched Missit’s punctured line between two fingers, counting the klicks in his head it’d take for Missit’s self-repair to hold. Chromantic carefully closed Drift’s panel up manually, then guided his legs off of Missit’s and massaged the backs of Drift’s knees.

“Feel any better?” Missit asked.

“Yeah,” Drift answered honestly. He sat up; his struts felt weak, in a good way. “You didn’t have to go that hard.”

“We wanted to treat you,” Chromantic said, laying himself across the back of the couch.

“Do you want me to—?”

“No, no, you’re fine sweetspark. We’re fine.”

The pleasant post-overload haze didn’t last for long before his worries were once more at the forefront of his mind. He was aware of both Missit and Chromantic watching him, observing as their Drift faded away, replaced once more with the harsh Underground killer. 

“You gotta head out?” Chromantic asked, already knowing the answer.

“Sorry,” Drift said. “I don’t mean to frag and run, really—”

Chromantic shook his head. “We’ll only hold it against you if you don’t come back and visit.” 

“You could always bring us some of those jellied candies,” Missit added.

“Tarnish delights?” Drift asked, leaning down to give Missit a kiss on the offered cheek. 

“ _Mmhmm,_ those ones.” 

“I’ll keep that in—” Just as Drift went to peck Chromantic’s cheek, he turned his head and blew a raspberry on Drift’s cheek. Drift reeled back and laughed. “You little slagger!”

“Yeah, yeah, get outta here,” Chromantic said, smacking lightly at his thigh with a wide grin. 

Drift waited until he’d left the brothel to let the scowl that’d been tugging at the corners of his lips show. He felt more grounded thanks to Chromantic and Missit. He needed to come up with a fall-back. Look into who exactly this Ravage might be. He was already running through his list of informants in his processor as he wandered home. There was nothing Drift could do to change course—not at this moment, at least. The best he could do was prepare and brace himself for the fall-out.

He hoped the impact when he inevitably hit the ground wouldn’t hurt too much.

* * *

“I’m worried ‘bout him. He’s in some bad trouble. You can tell.” Chromantic sighed, leaning into Missit’s embrace. “Him and that Megatron.”

“We’re helpin’ how we can,” Missit reassured. “Who’s lookin’ after the clinic tonight?” 

“Wringer is. I think the shift’s trading off soon.” 

“We’re helpin’ how we can,” Missit repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First smut I've ever written. Intimidating stuff, that is.
> 
> Come bother me on tumblr: weapon-up-wallflower
> 
> [I've drawn Missit and Chromantic if you're curious what they look like.](https://weapon-up-wallflower.tumblr.com/post/634794433479655424/you-had-some-good-memories-from-back-then)  
> Edit:  
> [Missit has a design sheet!](https://weapon-up-wallflower.tumblr.com/post/631537905873092609/campagnas-have-a-design-docket-i-did-for-a)  
> [So does Chromantic!](https://weapon-up-wallflower.tumblr.com/post/637975807509266432/chromantic-of-yuss-radio-transmitter-singer-and)  
> [So does Fuse!! I don't know why I keep putting these in chapter 4!!](https://weapon-up-wallflower.tumblr.com/post/639437933833797632/fuse-of-tinposie-row-arc-welder-outlier-wont)


	5. Black Rattling Pith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for drug use in this chapter.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [Teeth - Dead and Divine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnG47DXlGL8)  
> [Lovely Bones - Dead and Divine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FveQj_oJShw)

Drift was huddled in the corner of a darkened warehouse, on the side of the Dead End that bordered Iacon, close enough that he could pick out the gleaming towers rising high from the levels above the filth and the rusting metal walls; distant, almost absurd, like a joke that utterly missed the mark. Drift didn't like this part of the Dead End; a nearby energon processing plant dumped steam near-constantly into the air, perfume sickly-sweet and humid, leaving condensation on his plating. He felt too hot, but flaring his plating only caused the moisture to run between the cracks, nestling there, sticky and unwanted. It didn't help the rising agitation that spun tightly in his chest, his protoform crawling. His plating rattled with increasing frequency, his fuel pump working at twice the rate it normally would, strained from hunger, exhaustion, and neglect. The concrete at his back and beneath him helped dispel the heat a little, and he pressed himself to it. This was pathetic—he used to survive much worse for much longer.

In the back of his mind, he could hear Ratchet's voice chastising him, saying something about wear-and-tear building up the more he abused his body; he could see the sad look on Chromantic’s face when he told Drift _no._

Drift had no idea how Megatron found him. It’d been a while since they’d last crossed paths—Drift heard whispers of him continuing his _readings_ throughout the Dead End, but Drift couldn’t risk being seen at another. Now the miner's gunmetal form stood in front of him, unaware of how Drift felt like he was burning up from the inside, his plating clamped tight to keep the shivering at bay and a careful, wry smirk purposefully placed on his lips, masking his irritation. 

"I thought I saw you on the street," Megatron said. "I called out but you must've not heard. So I followed you."

"You _thought_ you saw me, so you followed me on the off chance you might be right?" Drift shook his head. "You're gonna pick the wrong mech to follow someday and get shot." 

"Well, that would be the least of my problems," Megatron replied.

"What’re you even doin’ around here?" Drift asked.

"Walking home. My shift just ended."

"You stationed 'round here?"

"Nova Point. Our regular board got flooded, so we moved temporarily to one in the area." Megatron gestured vaguely behind him. His plating was scuffed, blackened in parts from mine-dust. "I take it you're on a job? This is pretty far from your usual streets.” 

"Just finished one," Drift said. "Complete and utter pain in the aft, not worth the pay. I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“I can relate,” Megatron said, chuckling. Megatron paused, then looked down at Drift. "A shanix for your thoughts?" 

"Aren't you tired after workin’? You need a bath." 

"Humor me? I'm curious."

Clearly Megatron wasn't about to leave Drift alone. Behind his neutral expression, Drift gritted his teeth in irritation. 

“My designation,” Drift said. It was an odd topic, he knew; but Megatron had asked what was on his mind, and it _had_ been something Drift had been thinking about; the most palpable thing Drift was thinking about, anyway. The tarp he sat on crackled as he straightened his leg to kick away a piece of debris irately. "I hate it. It's weak. Wishy-washy. No one takes me seriously. I always gotta prove it, or else someone tries to screw me over. Sometimes they still try it."

"What would you change it to?" Megatron asked.

"Dunno. Somethin’ that isn't Drift. Somethin’…” Drift’s fingers twitched where they rested across his thighs, as though he were tempted to reach out and try to pluck the words he sought from the damp, warm air.

"Sturdier?"

"Yeah," Drift agreed. "More intimidatin’.”

"Is Drift a name you chose or were given?" Megatron inquired.

Drift shifted, his field surely broadcasting the abrupt discomfort that Megatron's question prompted.

"Dunno," Drift said again. "Don't ‘member. Far as I know, It’s always been Drift, always been in the Dead End. Never known anythin’ else." 

If Drift had to guess, he'd chalk up his amnesia to being the sort of damage you'd get from taking a circuit booster straight to the processor. Waking up in Ratchet's clinic wasn't his first memory by any means, but it was his earliest intact history file. There were plenty of files from earlier dates, but they were corrupted, the corrosion growing worse the further back in his long-term memory cache he searched, with the oldest files simply being an incomprehensible mess of noise. Since then he'd taken to frequently recalling memories he didn't want to lose in an effort to prevent them from falling down far enough in the cache that they could become corrupted. He didn't know if that was even how any of it worked, but wasn't about to take any chances; it wasn't as though he knew any mnemo-specialists he could just _ask_. And besides, even if he did, it wasn't likely they'd know; as far as Ratchet had been concerned, Drift was lucky to be alive with the damage he'd sustained. His chances of survival had been abysmal, and yet he'd managed to pull through. Regrettably. 

"Nothin' like Killgauge though," Drift muttered. "Talk about try-hard..."

When he glanced up, he saw Megatron wasn't listening to him—instead, the miner was staring at the circuit booster nestled conspicuously in the crook of Drift’s arm, his brow furrowed in consternation.

“You're…”

The smile Drift gave him was weary, barely lifting at the edges enough to even be considered one.

“Yankin’ it out mid-injection can cause fuel-pump failure,” Drift said quietly, little more than a whisper. “I would’ve gotten rid of it the ‘klik you showed up. Was jus’ hoping you weren’t gonna notice.”

Megatron didn’t say anything. He sat against the wall Drift had precariously slumped against. The solid weight at Drift's back was the only thing keeping him upright, for reasons that had little to do with the narcotic in his lines and everything to do with the strut-deep exhaustion that ached in every limb. His plating rattled loudly as the last of the syk hit his circuitry. The pen clicked quietly, and the needle withdrew. Drift immediately pulled it from his arm and hurled it as hard as he could; admittedly, it was a pitiful toss, the pen clattering on the concrete only a short distance away. He was too loose limbed in his doped-up state to do much better, but the offending object rolled away and became a vague shape in a shadowed corner, so he was satisfied. Out of sight, out of mind.

If only.

Drift shifted uncomfortably. He felt sheepish, something he hadn’t felt in a long while. He grimaced. Who was Megatron of Tarn to judge him? How was some hack-job miner-poet with revolutionary delusions any better than him? Who was he to have any say in how Drift led his life?

It wasn’t about Megatron—it was Ratchet. It was Missit, Chomantic, and Fuse. It was the people who’d been supportive and encouraging of Drift trying to get clean, doing their best to help him even if they themselves couldn’t make the same effort. Megatron was the one who was here, however, and Drift couldn’t temper his words when he was upset—he knew he got mean. He always got mean. So instead of the apology he wanted to offer, what came out was spiteful and mocking, his own frustrations and fragility worded as an accusation.

“What, you disappointed? You think I’m pathetic? Repulsive?” Drift sneered. “Come on, give me the fraggin’ lecture on how you ‘ _s’pected better_ ’ already, I don’t have all damn—“

“I don’t.”

Megatron's tone, gentle-yet-stern, threw him. He sat, lips still parted mid-word, stunned; he’d already been so caught up in his own anger, prepared for a fight, thoughts wrapped in a haze, that he had to think back to figure out what exactly it was among Drift’s scathing words that Megatron was responding to—something that proved exceedingly difficult feeling as light-headed as he did.

Drift was tired.

Was that why he felt like crying?

“I don’t find you pathetic,” Megatron said slowly, “or repulsive.”

Drift watched, wary, as Megatron shifted so he was facing him. Reaching out, he carefully pried Drift’s claws from where they’d dug into the gaps of his own arm plating, threatening to pierce the delicate fuel lines hidden there. He stared at their hands as Megatron gently unfurled his curled digits and massaged the joints soothingly, the touch far more delicate than a miner’s hands should have. 

“What do you need?” Megatron asked. “How can I help you, right now?”

Drift dragged the hand not held in Megatron's over his own face, shuttering his optics and pressing the pads of his fingers to them as he tried to clear his head enough to think.

His only priority, for as long as he could remember, was to survive. To just live another day, in hopes of… something. Something vague and unattainable, something not intended for mechs like him. Ratchet had given him a taste of it, an experience that left Drift so aware of the deep hunger in his core, he nearly wished he’d never been granted that first precious moment of comfort, of safety, the medic had provided. He wasn’t used to it—he wasn’t made for it. It had scared him, and Drift ran.

He’d run, but that didn’t quiet the thing inside him that scratched at the walls, trying to get out.

Then, instead of finding distraction, he’d found Gasket, who he’d loved and who died for it. He found Fuse, who's path of self-destruction Drift couldn't reroute. He found Chromantic and Missit, who understood, intimately, the need for comfort in modicums, because too much would be fatal; that if you were soft, _vulnerable_ , in their town, you died long before your body did. Then he found a miner who fancied himself a poet, who gave words to the longing hunger in Drift’s chassis; with his endless romantic stories, indulging the idealist in Drift that he’d tried for so long to bury, because that was the sort of thing that got you killed. Megatron was dangerous, because Megatron made Drift _want,_ and there was something ugly in that wanting. He wondered if Ravage had decided the risk was worth it.

Drift was so, so tired.

He turned his hand over in Megatron’s, tangling their fingers together. Rising to his knees, he hooked his free arm around Megatron’s neck, draping his weight against the other's warm frame as he pressed their lips together. Megatron was still. He raised a hand to Drift’s cheek, but instead of a sudden fervor that Drift braced himself for, Megatron eased him away, just far enough to part.

“No?” Drift murmured.

“What do you need, Drift?” Megatron asked again, low.

Drift swayed. He pulled his hand from Megatron’s and planted it on the miner’s shoulder to catch himself as his struts gave out. Megatron’s hands immediately fell to Drift’s sides, not touching, simply held there, ready to support him if need be. Drift let his optics shut, leaning his helm against where his forearm was braced against Megatron’s collar faring.

“I haven’t recharged in seventy-ei—“ Drift’s HUD flashed another warning, bright red and incredibly distracting. “…Seventy-nine cycles. It’s what I get for savin’ your aft from Tune-Up and Killgauge and... those. Mechs. Those mechs. Set me up with a rigged job. Didn’t know ’til the fucker was dead that he was a drug-lord’s amica. Jus’ thought he was some pimp. Whole damn cartel after my aft now. So… yeah. Been lookin’ over m’shoulder too much for...”

His words trailed off. With great effort, Drift forced himself to sit up straight again, trying to blink the haze from his optics.

 _“Yesss_ ,” Drift said, nearly hissing the word between his dentae. “So. That’s what I’ve been doin’. Would’ve hid out in the clinic—th' doc’s neutral, he’s got am… _mmmh_ … he don’t have gang connecti— _amnesty_ , that’s it. He’s got amnesty. But I don't want him to see…” Drift’s expression fell, and he covered his optics with his hand.

“Drift?”

“I was doin’ so well,” Drift said, his words choked. “Thought I could pull myself out of…”

Drift was still for a long moment, before he laughed, a harsh, unfriendly sound. He was overly-aware of Megatron watching him so closely as he pulled the raw, shattered pieces of himself back together once more.

“Jus' go.” Drift dropped his hand from his optics, his composure regained. He grinned and patted Megatron on the shoulder, making an effort to clearly enunciate instead of letting his words drag lazily like they wanted to. “I'm a mess. You don’t need to deal with this.”

“I’d rather stay,” Megatron offered.

There was no doubt in Drift’s processor that he’d been up for seventy-nine cycles if that was honesty and... _compassion_ that he thought he felt in the miner’s EM field. He wondered, vaguely, what that syk had been cut with; EM hallucinations were definitely new.

“Stay?” Drift snorted. “For what? I offered you a good time. You’re the one not takin’ it.”

“To keep an eye out so you can recharge,” Megatron explained. “Am I wrong in thinking that’s what your proposition was about?”

Drift looked at him as though he had a dented helm.

“I... you’re willin’ to do that for… what, _free_? What're you gettin’ out of it? Just lay back and let me... um. Make it worth your time.” Drift tried to get Megatron to lie down, pushing insistently at the mech’s chest. Every word took so much concentration just to get past his lips. “It’s syk, there’s a good chance I won’t even ‘member any of this, if you’re worried ‘bout—”

“Drift.” The hands that had been cautiously hovering at his sides came to land on Drift’s shoulders, holding him still. The roughness made Drift flinch, but it cut through the drug-haze. He glanced at Megatron's face to see the poet was staring down at him, seemingly horrified. “I am _not_ going to take advantage of you.”

After a few feeble and half-wrought attempts to shrug him off, Drift tilted his helm back to look Megatron in the eye, distinctly annoyed at this point. Did he seriously think Drift was that stupid? He wasn’t about to be in anyone’s debt, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to extend his fragile trust to a bot he liked but hardly knew.

[Megatron was precisely the sort of mech Missit had him pinned as. Drift would appreciate that in the future, in a way he couldn’t fathom in this moment.]

“What?” Drift snapped.

Now it was Megatron's turn to look tired. He ran a thumb across Drift's shoulder; to-and-fro, to-and-fro. It was too much, his plating feeling over-sensitive and tender from the high. Drift covered Megatron's hand with his own to still him.

“If you really feel as though you need to repay me for a simple kindness,” Megatron said, “then _consider_ my offer. I don’t want you to feel indebted and resent it later. But I could use your help, to try and spread the message of a better Cybertron. A better life for all of us. Just give it some thought. Is that a fair exchange for you?”

Drift looked at him, his stare flicking uncertainly over Megatron's features as though he could pry the mech's intentions from beneath the stern set of his mouth and the cut of his brow. He was tense beneath Megatron's hands, nearly rattling with pent-up anxiety. Megatron kept his touch light; grounding but not restraining, so Drift could pull away easily if he chose to. Despite his better hopes, Megatron fully expected for Drift to brush him off and chase him away. But the gunner's shoulders slumped, and he let out an exhausted breath.

"Fine," Drift finally conceded.

Drift didn't so much climb off of his lap as he tumbled sideways in a controlled fall. Megatron remained sitting as Drift stretched out on the thin tarp. He faced away, with his back pressed to the side of Megatron's leg. Seeking the warm comfort of another's presence without ever admitting to wanting it. Those small gestures gave Megatron faith he could bring Drift over to his side, if only he could convince him their effort wouldn't be fruitless. Drift didn’t move away when Megatron let one of his hands rest on the speedster’s shoulder. 

"Goodnight, Drift," he said. He received a soft grunt in return.

Megatron settled back against the wall, looking out into the deep shadows of the empty warehouse. He was unbothered; long hours of vigilance and quiet were more than familiar to him. It would be in that close quiet that the frail seed of trust he sought to plant somewhere in Drift's spark would grow. More than that, he wanted Drift to see him as more than a gutter tourist with a constitution too fragile for the realities of life in the Dead End. He wanted to see himself as more than that. He didn’t know how to help them, on a grand scale, but if he could give Drift the safety he needed to recharge. That was a start, in the least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Seventy nine cycles -- roughly four days.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at weapon-up-wallflower or on twitter at @gunupwallflower


	6. Gentle Touch of Omission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for graphic violence, head trauma, and throat trauma.  
> [The wonderful Fernacular drew Chromantic and Missit as well as a scene from this chapter!!!](https://fernacular.tumblr.com/post/629298329281544192/weapon-up-wallflower-s-transformer-ocs-missit)  
> [notsotinyblob on twitter did this really gentle and soft portrait of Chromantic and Missit! ;_;](https://twitter.com/notsotinyblob/status/1319002039406518272?s=20)
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [Daisy - Brand New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZRbX3ZJULk)  
> [Bloodbuzz Ohio - The National](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wmpz5dyr940)

It had taken a _considerable_ pay-off on Rook’s part to get the drug cartel off Drift’s back. The unassuming head of the Underground hadn’t been pleased about the situation, something he made sure Drift _knew_. Even with a new debt looming over his head, the relief of being able to return home and recharge after staying strung-out and wired up for so long had Drift feeling good. 

Or maybe it was the syk. 

Drift knew he’d worried people when he’d went dark for cycles on end, with no warning and nowhere to be found. Chromantic and Missit had pinged his comm frequently; Fuse had done the same a handful of times, despite it having been a while since Drift had last seen him. He’d let them know he was fine soon as it was safe to. Even so, he felt the need to make up for their concern.

Fuse had been happy enough with a bummed cy-garette and a light conversation on the curb. He showed Drift a trick he’d been trying—if he hummed a song, he could get the streetlight to flicker in time to the tempo. He told Drift that he still wasn’t sure what caused the flickering. It wasn’t as though he could _practice_ —there’d been rumor of other mechs with unusual abilities, who had disappeared from the streets quickly after talk began to circulate. 

“I figured if I stick to the same light, I can just blame the flickerin’ on the bulb. It’s not as though they’re gonna care ‘bout _infrastructure_ in the Dead End,” Fuse had said wryly. “Gettin’ real bored of this corner though.” 

Fuse wasn’t out on the corner tonight when Drift passed by. The streetlight shone steadily. Drift hoped that Fuse was safe, wherever he was.

It had taken some time to find, but Drift _had_ managed to get his hands on some of the candies Missit had requested. He didn’t deserve either Missit or Chromantic, really. The streetmechs were the toughest people Drift knew, managing to still find some part of themselves to be gentle and caring, despite the abuse they suffered through as both a danger of their occupation and the enforcers who preyed on the mechs who couldn’t fight them off, who no one would believe. Drift had tried to do the same, but it was growing harder. 

Drift couldn’t remain gentle, but he could offer something sweet to make up the difference, and maybe that would be enough.

He was nearing the brothel Missit and Chromantic worked at when the scream broke from further up the street. High and terrified, it was cut short, just as abruptly as it came. Drift’s optics widened, and he stopped dead in his tracks, immediately cautious and on-guard as he glanced around. 

A mech stumbled out of an alley nearby, clutching at his throat, hot energon bubbling between his fingers, his plating scraped and dented. He looked around wildly before locking eyes with Drift.

“Chrom!?” Drift uttered, horrified. 

He started running to Chromantic, who lurched forward, a hand outstretched. Then someone grabbed Chromantic and dragged him back into the shadows. Drift’s spark dropped. 

“CHROMANTIC!” 

He sprinted into the alleyway, manually adjusting his optics to the low lighting to see Chromantic pressed to the wall, struggling against the mech that held him there. He reached out to Drift again. With a cry Drift launched himself at Chromantic’s assailant. Grappling the mech from behind, he sunk his claws into the mechs’ wrist seam, slicing through tender wiring and protoform. The mech released Chromantic with a wail and clawed at Drift’s arm, trying to loosen the chokehold Drift had around his neck. Drift wrestled him back.

“Chrom, run!” he shouted. 

An elbow slammed into Drift’s cheek. He bit his tongue, energon welling in his mouth. Stumbling back, he groaned, holding his mouth. He glared at the mech, and spat. 

Drift stepped out of range as the mech swung, and again when a kick followed faster than he’d anticipated. He was rapidly falling to the defense, shepherded back into a corner. Snarling, Drift spat again and released the shiv he kept shoved in his wrist with the homemade spring-load, intending on shoving it into the mech’s eye. His hand was swatted aside. The thought crossed Drift’s mind that this mech knew how to fight too well before he was abruptly thrown over the mech’s shoulder. 

He hit the pavement hard, and only had the time to right himself before the mech was on him. He was heavier than Drift, and immediately used that to his advantage, knocking Drift back and pinning his hands. The mech shoved his knee between Drift’s legs. 

The white hot rage was immediate. Drift’s head snapped up and he sunk his teeth into the mech’s neck. The grip on his wrists was released as the mech reared back with a cry of pain. Drift shoved him back and rolled them. The mech fell on his back; Drift straddled his legs, pinning them down. He grabbed the decorative kibble of the mech’s helm, reared back, and slammed his head into the ground. And again. And again. Plating buckled with a sickening sound. Pink splattered across the concrete, viscous, thickened by cranial fluid that curdled the energon. The mechs’ optics shorted out, the delicate lenses shattering with the smell of burning circuitry. Drift pulled his hand away as the sparks scorched his plating—the mech’s head hit the ground with a wet _thunk_. 

Drift pushed himself off and stood, looking down at the mech’s unmoving form. He flexed his servos, feeling the energon sticking to his fingers and gumming up the joints. His plating rattled.

Chromantic had tucked himself off to one side of the alley, energon slowly seeping from under the hand he had pressed to his torn throat. He watched apprehensively as Drift approached and crouched in front of him, but didn’t flinch or shy away as Drift carefully scooped him up and carried him out of the alley. Drift could feel Chromantic’s optics on his face. He couldn’t bring himself to look.

They were met with shocked whispers when Drift entered the brothel carrying Chromantic. He heard someone say they were going to get Missit. Drift vaguely recognized the mech who led him to an empty couch to be Wringer—they’d met before, enough to be a familiar face.

Wringer said something about stemming the bleeding. Carefully, Drift laid Chromantic down on the couch. The moment Drift pulled away, Chromantic caught his chin, forcing Drift to look at him. The look in his optics was a question Drift didn’t have the answer to.

Missit’s arrival saved him from trying to think of one.

“Where are they?!” Missit’s voice seemed oddly clear compared to everything else. He came into view as someone pointed him in the right direction. 

Missit sobbed the moment he laid eyes on Chromantic. Drift pulled away to give Missit room as he rushed to his conjunx’s side. Wringer came back, arms full of mesh bandages and washcloths. 

“What’s going on?” an unfamiliar voice demanded. Drift looked to the source of the commotion to find a flustered and angered mech stomping into the main room. It took only a glance to tell he was the client Missit must’ve been with when they’d stumbled in. The mech glowered when he found Missit. “Who said you were done? I paid you for your time, you _owe me._ ” 

“Go blow yourself,” Missit snapped. 

“You filthy little piece of shareware, _you_ —” 

Drift stepped in between them as the mech made to grab Missit, planting a hand on his chassis and shoving him back _hard._ The mech stumbled, then touched his chest, where in the center there now lay a handprint, the life-fluid stark against light grey plating. He looked at Drift, taking in the energon that smattered his frame and covered his servos, then around the room, seemingly realizing the situation he’d stumbled into.

“You’re all depraved,” he said. 

Drift bared his teeth, and the mech quickly made his way out of the brothel, nearly tripping over himself as he looked over his shoulder. Drift made to follow him, then was stopped at the call of his name.

“Drift?” Missit’s touch landed on his arm, and he turned his attention to his friend. “Drift, we need to get Chromantic to the clinic.”

Drift nodded. Missit’s frame was too light to carry Chromantic without risk of jarring him; even if he could, Drift knew the quickest way to the clinic. 

Chromatic’s throat had been carefully bandaged, but even now Drift could see the faintest hints of darkening as the energon began to soak through the mesh. Chromantic seemed sluggish as Drift carefully lifted him from the couch, Missit worriedly keeping close.

As they left the brothel, Drift gave the alleyway where Chromantic had been attacked a passing glance. It was empty, energon pooled around where his assailant’s body should have still been laying. Drift couldn’t remember what he’d looked like. 

* * *

The clinic was open. Drift heard Missit say a prayer of thanks under his breath as he held the door open for Drift to carry Chromantic inside.

Ratchet was tidying up when they stumbled in. His optics widened as he took them in—the reaction was gone as quickly as it came, a detached professional demeanor taking its place. 

“Lay him here,” Ratchet said, patting a vacant berth as he strode across the room and prepared an energon drip. 

Drift eased Chromantic onto the berth, Missit helping support his head so Chromantic didn’t have to strain his damaged cabling. 

Chromantic groaned softly, the sound gurgling and static-laced. He onlined his optics, looking around, his gaze dim.

“Hi darling.” Missit stroked Chromantic’s helm. “We’re at the clinic. Ratchet’s going to help you.” 

Ratchet rolled the intraline pole to the berthside. As Drift moved to give Ratchet room to work, Chromantic grunted, lifting a hand toward Drift. Drift rounded the berth so he wasn’t in the way and took Chromantic’s other hand. He laced their fingers together; he could tell that Chromantic wasn’t just seeking comfort—he had something he wanted to say. Chromantic made the sign for _good/affirmative/well_ , with the tap to the side of the hand that posited a question.

_Are you okay?_

“Just rest,” Drift said, squeezing Chromantic’s hand before he gently pressed it onto the berth. 

Chromantic drowsily frowned and reached for his hand again, but was distracted by Missit pressing a kiss to his forehead, allowing Drift to slip away without answering. He didn’t go far, taking a seat in one of the nearby chair that lined the wall. Missit remained by Chromantic’s side, holding his hand as Ratchet primed the intraline cabling and hooked it up. Already exhausted as he was, it didn’t take long for Chromantic to fall unconscious beneath the numbing haze of painkillers that laced the energon drip feeding into his arm. 

Drift knew Missit to be protective—they all were, for good reason—but even so he was surprised when Missit leaned close to the doctor with an unfriendly look in his optics.

“If I find _one single bolt_ missin’ out of him after you’re done fixin’ him, I promise you will live to regret it,” Missit said lowly.

“Well, it’s a good thing then that you won’t need to take my word for it, because you can sit right there,” Ratchet pointed to the seat beside Drift, “and watch me the entire time.” 

Missit didn’t move.

“Look, I understand your concern,” Ratchet said. “I am a _certified medic._ I am here to _help_. I can’t do that without either the consent of the patient—who can’t give it, currently—or the patient’s significant other, which I take to be you.”

Missit scrutinized Ratchet for a moment longer, then stepped back and nodded.

He fell into the chair beside Drift, his field broadcasting the same exhaustion and misery Drift felt. 

"He really is legit, huh?" Missit muttered.

"Who, Ratchet?" It occurred to Drift that this was the first he'd spoken since finding Chromantic in the alleyway. His words felt as though they had to unstick from his throat.

"Mmhmm. Back-alley organ hacks, they don't talk like that."

"Chromantic's in good hands, Missy. I trust him.”

“What _happened?_ ” Missit demanded. Of course he didn’t know—they’d been so focused on getting Chromantic help and to safety that the obvious question had been put off until now. 

“Chromantic was attacked,” Drift said, keeping his voice quiet so as to not disturb Ratchet’s work. He pressed an apology into his field—he should have told Missit earlier. “I dunno who did it. I didn’t get a good look at him.” 

“He got away?” Missit asked, alarmed.

“No. I bashed his helm in. Someone dragged the dirtbag off while we were inside.” 

“Oh, sweetspark.” Missit’s field held a sort of complicated sorrow as he looked Drift in the optic. “The Underground really got you that bad, huh?” 

“Wasn’t the Underground that did it, Missy.” Drift’s penchant for violence—his _talent_ for it—is what got him into the Underground, not the other way around. 

Missit laid his head on Drift’s shoulder.

“S’alright. I still trust you,” Missit said quietly. “I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t nice to have that on our side for once.” 

Drift couldn’t put the relief he felt into words, so he didn’t try, simply letting Missit’s field pick it up. A comfortable, weary silence fell between them. Missit watched Ratchet’s repairs on Chromantic; Drift watched Ratchet, and idly picked at the dried energon on his plating. 

The repairs took shorter than Drift would have expected. Perhaps that was a testament to Ratchet’s skill more than anything else. Missit stood; he didn't move further, hovering uncertainly. Ratchet disinfected his servos, unlocked the brakes on the medberth, and wheeled it off to a corner of the clinic that looked to be set up for longer-stay patients; a padded chair was set beside the space Ratchet rolled the medberth into, and there was a curved curtain pole bolted to the ceiling to allow a privacy curtain to be drawn around and closed. 

Ratchet beckoned Missit to sit in the chair beside the berth before quickly going over information Missit would need to know—Chromantic shouldn’t attempt to use his vocoder for a deca-cycle, if the patch weld started showing signs of infection to come back to the clinic, they should allow the energon drip to finish its cycle before leaving the clinic, and that he should resign from taking on any clients for a while if at all possible. After a moment of clearly trying to figure out how to best broach the subject, Ratchet reset his vocalizer and bluntly informed Missit that Chromantic wasn’t to perform oral until well after the patch had integrated and Chromantic could speak without difficulty, prompting a laugh from Missit. The doctor had Missit reiterate the information back to him, then, satisfied, grasped the privacy curtains.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Ratchet said. 

Missit’s acknowledgement was quiet. Ratchet tugged the privacy curtain closed around them. His quiet cursing as the curtain ring got caught on a screw in the pole brought a slight smile to Drift’s lips.

“Rusted piece of crap,” Ratchet muttered beneath his breath. Drift watched Ratchet’s hands closely as he gently smoothed the curtain in spite of his irritation.

Drift was content to remain slumped in the chair as Ratchet puttered around the clinic, slotting his used tools into a tray to be loaded into the sanitizing machine. Ratchet pressed a few buttons and the sanitizer came online with a beep and a puff of steam.

“You know chirolinguistics,” Ratchet observed. _He_ sounded so certain, while Drift sure as pit had no idea what he was talking about.

“Chirowhatnow?”

“You speak hand.”

Oh. 

“Un-huh,” Drift replied, lamely. 

Ratchet hummed, and turned away to wash his hands again.

Be it from the damage that delicate throat-lining could sustain from siphoning, or from the enforcers who liked to make it so they couldn’t scream, the Dead End saw its fair share of mechs who were voiceless. Unable to speak, they resorted to another way of communicating, through touch. They all spoke hand in the Dead End, because no one knew when it would be their voice that was taken next. 

It was the first time he’d heard the word _chirolinguistics_ though. Leave it up to the upper-class mechs to assign it a fancy name so they’d find it palatable.

“Alright, it's your turn,” Ratchet said, drying his hands on a towel. 

“It’s not mine,” Drift replied immediately. “The energon, I mean.”

“Kid, I can _see_ you cradling your hand. Let me take a look at it in the very least.”

Drift’s stubbornness held out only as long as it took Ratchet to retrieve another towelette from the warmer he had off in a corner. Ratchet took a seat in the chair beside him and held out his hand expectantly. Drift unfolded his arms, hesitant to place his hand in the doctor’s and dirty it. Ratchet took his hand without hesitation and began carefully cleaning off the dried energon that clung to his plating, focusing on the joints it had seeped into. Drift sighed, optics off-lined as he enjoyed the warmth of the towelette on his plating.

“Does this hurt?” Ratchet asked, bending one of Drift’s fingers.

“No,” Drift said, honestly.

“Alright.” Ratchet bent his next finger. “This?”

“No.” 

So on and so forth, with Ratchet working through a variety of motions, testing to see if any incited a pain reaction. He was rewarded with a displeased sound once or twice, but no flinching or pained groans.

“Well it seems as though you’ve only sprained your hand,” Ratchet said, moving to wipe away a splatter of energon from Drift’s cheek. 

Drift held very still, torn between pointing out that this was more than just looking over his hand and the urge to lean into Ratchet’s touch.

Ratchet seemed almost startled when he caught himself; he pulled his hand back, reset his vocalizer with a click, and fumbled with the towelette before holding it out for Drift to take. 

“I’ll, uh, let you clean the rest off,” Ratchet said.

The part of Drift that flourished under Ratchet’s care cried out at the loss. Drift shoved it aside, accepting the towelette with a brief thanks and getting to work on the energon that splattered his upper arms and chassis. Unexpectedly, Ratchet stayed seated beside Drift, his arms crossed and head tilted back to rest against the wall as he off-lined his optics with a sigh. 

“Long day, doc?” Drift asked. 

“Something like that.” 

Drift had been at the clinic enough times to know where to discard the soiled towelette. He tossed it in the hamper, and as he turned around and looked out over the clinic’s humble interior—a patchwork of whatever supplies and instruments Ratchet had managed to smuggle down here innocuously, meticulously maintained and set up to look like a _proper_ clinic—it occurred to him for not the first time how much the Dead End stood to lose if the Senate learned about this place. Had the Dead End clinic not existed, they in all likelihood would have chosen to stem the bleeding and resigned to Chromantic’s vocoder sustaining irreparable damage rather than risk bringing him to one of the ‘doctors’ who preyed on the Dead End’s residents. As it stood, the lasting damage would be emotional and mental, things that Missit could help his conjunx heal from. 

As Drift sat back down, he remembered the Tarnish delights in his subspace.

“Oh, damn it,” Drift muttered. 

“What?” Ratchet asked, concerned. He watched as Drift dug around in his subspace and produced a small, partly-dented tin box with a pretty label on the lid. 

Drift flipped it open, revealing the jellied energon candies inside, dusted with a white powder. They were less mangled than Drift feared, and he sighed in relief. He glanced to see Ratchet peering at the candies curiously.

“You ever try a Tarnish delight before, doc?” Drift asked. Ratchet shook his head, and Drift held out the tin. “Here. Have one.”

Ratchet plucked a sweet from the tin, squishing the tacky candy lightly between to fingers before popping it in his mouth. His nose wrinkled in distaste; for a moment he seemed to reconsider, before his expression returned to one of dislike. Drift grinned.

“Weird tastin’, ain’t they?” he asked.

“These are considered _fine_ _candies_?” Ratchet asked, reading the scrawling print on the label of the box.

“Can’t say I get the appeal, but Missit likes ‘em.” 

“What do I like?” Missit’s voice rose from the other side of the clinic. Drift looked up to see Missit slipping out from behind the curtains. 

“The good doctor is finally lettin’ us pay him in kind,” Drift said, holding out the tin of Tarnish delights so Missit could see the empty spot where Ratchet had taken the candy from.

Missit seemed delighted for a moment; then his field broadcasted guilt, and he looked at Drift apologetically. 

“You’re so sweet. I don’t got any appetite after all that,” Missit admitted. 

“Save them for later?” Drift suggested, closing up the lid to the candy tin.

“They’ll get old and stiff, it’d be a waste.” Missit perked up. “Oh, you keep them Drift, you deserve them for all the trouble we’ve given you.”

“Missy, it’s fine, really—”

“I insist.” Missit pecked Drift on the cheek and tweaked his finial. “Give yourself a treat for once, handsome. Say doc, would it be alright if I could get another blanket? Chrom’s used to bein’ warm all the time so I’m worried he’ll get cold and wake up.” 

“Of course, let me get that for you.” Ratchet planted his hands on his knees and pushed himself to standing. He retrieved another blanket from the warmer and handed it off to Missit, who vanished back behind the curtain with a sing-song thank-you. 

When Missit was out of sight, Drift held out the candy tin to Ratchet, wearing the most pitiful expression he could muster.

“ _Nuh-uh_ ,” Ratchet said. “I’m not taking those. Remember, you’re supposed to be treating yourself to them, _‘handsome’_.” 

Normally, Drift would’ve taken up the banter and perhaps convinced the medic into taking the candies off his hands, but hearing the endearment from Ratchet—quoted or no—left Drift too flustered to utter a single word.

* * *

Megatron took to spending his off-shifts fueling alone. It was one of the few moments he had to frantically pen the words that plagued his processor throughout the long shifts, where they would stack atop one another like hack-job scaffolding that threatened to fall. Normally he sought to fuel as quickly as he could, but this time it remained barely-touched as he read and re-read through the notes and thoughts he’d jotted down a few cycles ago. 

He was at an impasse. Since admitting to Drift he had no answer for the question Drift asked of him, it seemed as though the question itself became more pressing, if possible. Megatron could criticize the system all he wanted; without a solution at hand, that’s all it would stay. Empty criticism. 

As much as he’d wanted it to not be the case, Megatron was beginning to understand how Drift so easily scoffed at the thought of a nonviolent insurrection ever taking place. With the hand not holding his datapad, Megatron held the side of his canteen to his cheek, the cool metal soothing his tender protoform where his overseer had pistol-whipped him for speaking out of turn. Every time he or the other miners suffered these abuses, some part of him rose in fury, tempted to return the blow tenfold. The fury had always been there, but recently it threatened to become too much to ignore. 

He told himself he didn’t want to inflict suffering in return. The argument kept sounding more and more like a lie. 

So he scrolled through his notes, reading through what the Dead Enders had been willing to share with him—their stories, their histories, their songs, their livelihoods—looking for something that he could latch onto, something that he could use to convince _someone_ to care. Something to stem the urge.

“ _There_ you are.” 

Megatron startled, looking up to see Impactor approaching him. He watched warily as his friend picked his way through the barrels and mining equipment that scattered the room Megatron had hidden away in. They hadn’t spoken since Megatron grew incensed at Impactor over how he spoke of the Dead Enders. Megatron wasn’t sure what to expect—knowing Impactor, he would probably ignore that it had ever happened, expecting Megatron would do the same; not that Megatron would. Impactor sat next to him with a huff.

“For a klik there I was thinking that the shift bell was going to ring and I would’ve wasted all my time wandering around looking for you,” Impactor said, retrieving his own canteen from his subspace.

Megatron continued scrolling through his notes. 

“Skrillbit’s a pain in the aft to work with,” Impactor lamented. “All he does is tell the same damn stories over and over. I swear the mech just likes to hear himself talk.” 

Megatron made a neutral sound. A name caught his eye as he passed it, and he tabbed back up, reading through the paragraph.

“I haven’t seen you in cycles and that’s all you’ve got to say?” Impactor asked.

“Yes,” Megatron replied.

Impactor let his head thunk back against the wall with a frustrated sound. Megatron took a drink from his canteen, pressing it to his cheek again.

“Megatron look, I’m trying—would you put the damn datapad away? I’m trying to talk to you.” 

“I’m not in the mood to talk,” Megatron said. He turned the datapad’s screen off anyhow, giving Impactor a harsh look. 

“I _know_ , that’s pretty damn obvious. Listen. On my last surface time, I went to the oilhouse, and I was still pissed off, okay? I was pissed off, and I got into a fight, and I got my aft thrown into holding.”

Wasn’t the first time. Megatron could recall a multitude of times that Impactor picked a fight when he shouldn’t, or rose to one that someone else had started, and ended up spending a short time behind bars before the Foreman negotiated his release. One of these days it would get Impactor slagged. In the meantime, Impactor just doubled-down on his work to make up for the loss. Work hard, live hard, fight hard—that was Impactor. 

Megatron turned back to his datapad—only for Impactor to snatch it out of his hand. 

Immediately Megatron rallied. “Impactor, _give me that—”_

“I’m not going to break it,” Impactor said, holding the datapad out of Megatron’s reach. “Listen to me.” 

Megatron sat back, warily keeping an eye on the datapad. Impactor clearly wasn’t going to give it back without a struggle until Megatron listened to yet another story of how he won some pointless fight.

“When I was in holding, my cellmate was from the Dead End,” Impactor said. “Wasn’t the first time—there’s tons of them there, all the time. I ignored them. This time though, I kept thinking about what you said, so I tried talking to the guy.” 

Megatron was definitely listening now. 

“I’m sorry for being an aft is what I’m trying to say.” Impactor said irritably. 

“What did he say?” Megatron asked.

“The Dead Ender? I asked him why there were so many of them there. He said the enforcers have been trying to ‘clean up’ the Dead End. He was sleeping on the street and they didn’t like that.” Turning the datapad over in his hand, Impactor scowled. “Listen, I’m not saying I’m a gutter-lover now, but… I get it, alright? I was wrong.”

“They’re people,” Megatron repeated.

“Yeah, yeah. What have you been writing so much of recently, anyhow? More poetry?” 

Just as Megatron was about to reply, about to _explain_ , the shift bell rang, loud and jarring. They had only a short time to return to their stations before the bell would ring again and they’d be back to the long hours of work. 

“On our next surface-time,” Megatron said as Impactor gave him the datapad back. “I’ll tell you then.” 

“I’m holding you to it.” Impactor stood, hands on his hips as he looked down at Megatron once more. He kicked Megatron lightly in the shin with a smirk. “Finish your damn energon.”

Subspacing his writings, Megatron tossed back the rest of his energon, a sense of relief having settled itself in his spark. Maybe Impactor could be convinced to likewise see what Megatron had been shown.

* * *

It was the early hours of the morning when Drift shoved the door to his apartment open and shuffled in, strut-weary and still on-edge. 

Missit had arranged for another mech he knew—a name Drift hadn’t recognized nor remembered now—to come help bring Chromantic back to their room at the brothel safely. Drift had intermittently asked Ratchet if he felt safe at least twice before Missit grabbed his hand and signed that they already had someone who would be keeping an eye on the doctor during his walk back to the shuttle that took him out of the Dead End. It was only when Drift nearly fell into recharge in his chair that Missit and Ratchet managed to convince him to go home and get some rest.

Drift barely took in his near-unfurnished apartment as he automatically crossed it and began to undo the ties to the tarp he’d nailed to the wall above his sole window, the rising sun beginning to show through the slats of the metal grating bolted to the outside of the pane.

There was a loud scraping behind him. Drift startled, whirling around to see the beastformer from the rally, lazily perched on Drift’s table as though he owned the place. 

Ravage. 

“How did you find this place?” Drift demanded.

“That’s not important,” Ravage replied.

“Yes, it is, because I need to know if I have to fuckin’ _move_.” He was too tired for this. 

“Not yet. But if you _have_ to know, your friends told me,” Ravage informed him primly. 

“My friends?”

“At the brothel.”

“Why would they tell _you_ where I live?” If there was anyone that Drift trusted to keep a secret, it was Missit and Chromantic. 

“It’s about the attack against your friend Chromantic,” Ravage supplied.

Drift frowned. He grabbed a chair, flipped it around, and sat on it backwards, his forearms crossed over the seatback.

“When were you at the brothel?” he asked.

“Not long after you’d left. It was supposed to be an _intervention_ but I couldn’t get out without gathering suspicion quickly enough. I figured I’d find you here eventually, considering I had no idea where you’d gone and no one was talking.” 

They were still staunchly protecting the clinic.

“Did you see who dragged the bastard’s body off?” Drift asked.

“No. I however know who he was—his name was Highwyre. More important is the fact that he worked for the Senate.” 

Drift tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “Fuck,” he said quietly.

“It was intended to be a warning,” Ravage said.

“What kind of warning—”

“For _you,_ ” Ravage interrupted. “The warning was for you.” 

Drift looked at him, stunned. 

“They know you interceded in Megatron’s assassination,” Ravage said. “I don’t know how. But they know it was you, or suspect it was you. Megatron’s bounty has been withdrawn—they’re not pleased.”

They knew. The dread Drift had been feeling like needles in the back of his neck had been there for a reason. Being set up by Killgauge hadn’t been the end of the retaliation. It was only the beginning.

Drift’s fuel pump skipped.

_The clinic._

“You said you didn’t know where I was?” Drift said, cautiously.

“No.” Ravage’s tail flicked. “Chromantic was the only name outside your associates from the Underground they have. Even so I would be more careful going forward, if there’s someone else that you’re worried about.”

Drift frowned. “Why are you even helping me? I’m not Megatron. I’m not who you should be keeping an optic on.” 

“You’re important to Megatron,” Ravage stated, as though he were irritated, as though it were _obvious._ “You’re going to be the reason why mechs like you and I and… _others_ won’t be deemed a necessary sacrifice. You make him take us into account. I’m not interested in helping a movement that doesn't care about me and mine.” 

Drift ex-vented, pushing himself off the chair. He crossed the room to the locked cabinet shoved in a corner. He was aware of Ravage watching him as he unlocked it. He retrieved his guns from the cabinet, checking the safety and the ammo of each methodically.

Most mechs Drift knew wouldn’t hesitate to be carrying constantly—why would you, when a well-landed shot could turn a situation in your favor so quickly? It was for that same reason that Drift had left his guns locked up whenever he could. It was easy. It was _too_ easy. Drift had thought that by locking them away he could restrain the side of him that was tempted by the seductive impartiality of that obliging violence. He could still be that old Drift, in fits and starts, who while weak, beaten, and bruised, wasn’t someone who frightened those he cared for.

Drift closed the cabinet. 

Chromantic hadn’t been afraid of him. Missit had been grateful. The violence lived inside Drift, and it didn’t need a gun to show its teeth. It was _his fault_ Chromantic had been hurt. 

He subspaced his guns and pulled out the Tarnish delights, giving the tin a once-over, tracing a thumb over the pretty flowers and meaningless words printed on the label.

“Here,” Drift said. He tossed the candy tin at Ravage, who caught it deftly in his mouth.

Ravage dropped it on the table, sniffing at it curiously. Picking it back up, he jumped off the table, and without another word he disappeared into a vent near the floor that he must’ve removed the grate covering from. Drift crouched down, peering into the vent—the beastformer was gone. The grate was propped against the wall. Drift picked it up, casting about for the screws that were nowhere to be found.

“Breaks into my place and loses my fuckin’ grate screws—” he muttered. Glancing at the open ventilation shaft, he let out a resigned groan and set to finding the missing screws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come bother me on tumblr: weapon-up-wallflower


	7. Achromatic, Post-Traumatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: There is an allusion to attempted sexual assault, primarily through verbal threat. It is brief, but I'm not about to tell anyone their own boundaries, so please go into this with your own safety and comfort-levels in mind. If you would like to skip the scene, stop reading after the line “I have audials. People talk," and continue reading at "Break it off, both of you."
> 
> Also, because someone on Tumblr asked me - this is the only time in _Two Cents_ that an SA content warning is needed. I hope that assuages any worries some might be having going forward.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [In a Jar - Brand New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-Le_DAXQws)  
> [Exist for Love - AURORA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWE1jNVAfT8) [playing on the radio]  
> [Wise Enough - LAMB](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F4JrYpRxIMs)

Megatron’s bounty was called off.

Drift supposed he should be glad that Ravage’s information turned out to have a grain of truth to it, but the anxiety of some impending doom—like needles in the back of the neck, the urge to glance over his shoulder—only grew worse as the weeks passed.

He hadn’t heard from Megatron in that long, but perhaps more concerning was that he hadn’t heard _of_ Megatron being anywhere in the Dead End, hosting any of his samizdat readings. 

Drift distracted himself with bounty work, picking over the scraps as usual. He had plenty of targets to choose from in the first few days after Megatron’s bounty was cancelled—the rest of the Underground seemed to be waiting with baited breath in idle hope that the hit might be reposted, or if they’d hear news that someone else had landed the hit and who it was. Drift indulged in the chance to be particular about the hits he carried out while it lasted, because he knew it wouldn’t last long, and as the radio silence stretched on the rest of the Underground seemed to concede to the five million bounty having bitten the dust.

Drift’s time at the Den was spent with his head low, in-and-out as he bought news of the recent postings off of Oilslick and left as soon as he’d recorded the last word that passed the barkeep’s lips. Killgauge hadn’t been there at any of the times Drift had stopped in—Drift thought he might’ve seen him once, but Drift had been halfway out the door by the time he spotted him, and he hadn’t stuck around to find out if it’d been him after all. That wasn’t a confrontation he was looking forward to. 

Then came the ominous comm from Rook that brought him back to the Den, sooner than he’d intended. 

The mood in the bar was tense—it was never _comfortable_ to say in the least, but this was potent, enough so that Drift was quick to get a drink from Oilslick—bartender’s choice—and tuck himself away into the first available chair furthest from the other mercenaries gathering in the place. He was only here because Rook had called him in. From the looks of it he wasn’t the only one. When Tune-Up showed up with Killgauge and Rebar, bringing their numbers up to eleven, Drift realized that Rook must have summoned the entire Underground here; immediately he checked that the route to the back exit was still clear from where he sat. 

Rook was the last to arrive, and by the time he did, the Den was possibly the closest to _packed_ as Drift had ever seen it. The conversation didn’t silence entirely, but it pitched down considerably as they all watched their boss drag an available chair out and take a seat— _then_ came the silence.

“I’ve called you all here regarding a bit of _housekeeping_ ,” Rook stated. “We’re changing what kind of _work_ the Underground handles. Solo bounties are out—”

A chorus of objections rose instantly. Rook held up his hand irritably.

“ _Solo bounties are out._ They’re too unpredictable and barely cover overhead,” Rook reiterated forcibly. Drift heard someone mutter something about there being less overhead to cover if Rook lowered his cut, but didn’t look to see who it was. “We’re operating as a cohesive team moving forward. We’re handling larger assignments. The pay is higher, as are the _stakes_. I can’t have any of you without your head in the game. If you don’t _like that_ , you can get lost now.” 

No one moved. Rook looked around, satisfied.

“ _Good_. That’s what I like to see. Operations will be assigned based on need, so I will be in touch. If you have any questions—” 

“Yeah, I got one,” Killgauge interrupted. “The fuck are we supposed to do while we’re sittin’ pretty waitin’ for you to give us a damn job that pays?”

A damn good question, as loathe as Drift was to admit it.

“You’ll be paid a moderate income monthly to make ends meet,” Rook answered, “with a… _considerable_ bonus for completing assignments.”

“ _You_ call the shots on who gets these ‘assignments’,” Killgauge said.

“Yes, well. Prove yourself _good at it_ and we won’t have any issues,” Rook responded lightly. “Any other questions?”

There were a few, but Drift tuned them out in favor of nursing his drink and thinking the current situation over some. Part of him found the idea of a monthly income appealing — he might be able to _save up_ for once—and the other part of him didn’t trust Rook as far as he could throw him. He guessed he’d see how the whole thing shook out and go freelance if need be. What a pain.

Rook had disappeared at some point. Left, presumably, which Drift took to be his cue to do the same. He tossed back the rest of his drink, choking briefly as the cocktail hit the back of his throat with a burn noticeably stronger than his usual. That was the last time he let Oilslick make whatever struck his fancy. 

Drift swayed lightly as he got to his feet. Irritably, he activated his FIM chip, the flush hitting his system like a brick. He slid his empty glass onto the bartop as he left the Den. 

The night was cold. Drift shivered, rubbing his hands along his arms as he walked.

“Bet you wished you’d taken me up on the offer, huh?” 

Drift didn’t need to look to know it was Killgauge, but he didn’t like having his back exposed. He stopped walking and glared at the bounty hunter who followed him.

“That’s what I would say,” Killgauge continued, “if I didn’t know you were a dirty fuckin’ snitch.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on ‘bout,” Drift said. Maybe Killgauge was stupid enough to buy it—or maybe he’d been high enough at the rally that Drift could feasibly plant that doubt. It was always a possibility.

“Don’t play cute,” Killgauge sneered. “ _You_ sent off that false alarm at the rally, and you snuck Megaton out.”

“Megatron,” Drift corrected, then bit his tongue at the slip-up.

Killgauge grinned, viciously. “I thought you couldn’t read.” 

“I have _audials_. People _talk._ I don’t have time for your paranoid bullshit. The bounty got cancelled. Get over it.” 

Drift began to walk away. Killgauge’s hand curled around his shoulder, jerking him back. 

“Get your hands off of me,” Drift snarled, shoving his arm off. 

Killgauge grabbed him by the upper arms and lifted, shoving him up against the wall, the impact jarring a sound from Drift. Killgauge’s weight kept him pinned, feet off the ground. Drift lashed out, struggling to fight him off; Killgauge readjusted his grip, ramming him against the wall once more. Drift bared his teeth and spat at his face. He missed. 

“Aww, come on _sweetspark._ You look good like this.” Killgauge mocked. Fury rose in Drift’s chest at the term of endearment the streetmechs used for one another being stolen by someone so _vile._ Killgauge leaned in, his lips just beside Drift’s audial, and Drift stilled, his eyes wide and chest heaving. “I _know_ you’re in with the miner. I _know_ it’s your fault the bounty was cancelled. That’s alright; a pretty little thing like you? I can think of plenty of ways you could make up for the five million you lost me.”

“I will _kill you_ ,” Drift hissed, “and by the time I do you will be _begging_ me to let you die.”

“Yeah? Let’s see who gets what they want first.” Killgauge grabbed Drift’s leg, hiking it up around his waist. 

There was a benefit to so few speedsters being found in the Dead End—no one here was familiar with speedster _frames_ , or even aware of what was standard to Drift’s build. The shocked yelp Killgauge let out when Drift activated the rarely-used thrusters in his back and shoulders was satisfying as hell—almost as satisfying as the burns it left across Killgauge’s hands. Killgauge dropped Drift, stumbling back. He made the mistake of falling, and instantly Drift was on him.

Drift jammed his clawed thumb into Killgauge’s optic, breaking through the protective lens and shredding the delicate machinery beneath. 

He shouted and punched Drift in the chassis, sending him tumbling. Drift rolled onto his feet, guns drawn and pointed at Killgauge, whose frame-bound weaponry locked on him in return.

“You filthy little poppet valve,” Killgauge roared. “You’ll fuckin’ pay for that!” 

Before Drift could formulate a response, the door to the Den slammed open. Rook stepped out, furious.

“Break it off, _both_ of you!” he snapped.

“The _shareware_ took out my fuckin’ eye!” Killgauge sneered. “ _He’s_ the one who lost the five million! He sabotaged the whole damn thing!”

Drift bristled, finger tightening on the trigger. 

“Shut up with your whining,” Rook snapped, with a confidence that only came with dangerous friends in high places. “If you were better at your _fucking job_ you would’ve been able to land that bounty, but you _aren’t._ Killgauge, inside. _Now!_ ” 

For a moment it seemed as though Killgauge was going to argue, then his weapons powered down, and he spat on the ground near Drift’s feet before he stalked inside. It wasn’t until the door had closed behind him that Drift fully decided against shooting him in the back of the head. 

“The fuck was that?” Rook demanded.

“Stop recruitin’ trash,” Drift replied, switching the safety back on his gun. He flinched back as Rook whirled and shoved a finger in his face. 

“You listen here—I didn’t bail you out because I like you. I bailed you out because I need you not-skittish and looking over your shoulder every klik because you were stupid and pissed off the head of one of the Dead End’s most notorious cartels. If anyone else could shoot half as straight as you I wouldn’t have bothered, but this next job relies on that shot landing exactly where and when it needs to. Whatever is going on between you and Killgauge, I don’t care. I won’t tolerate you fucking this con up, do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear. Sir.”

“You owe me,” Rook warned. “Do your part and we’ll be fine, debt repaid. Otherwise Killgauge will be the least of your concerns.”

Rook left it at that, the indistinct threat hanging between them. Drift waited as his boss went back inside. The moment the door clicked shut, Drift slammed his fist into the wall, relishing in the sting. He stumbled, and rested his head against the cool wall, light-headed from the sudden drop in his fuel levels caused by using his thrusters.

“Get your shit together Drift,” he muttered to himself. “No one’s gonna do it for you.” 

He pushed himself off the wall.

* * *

Drift went to visit Chromantic, intent on checking up on him and seeing how he was healing. It had been a few cycles since he’d last seen his friend, who was all but sequestered away in his room at the brothel—the one he and Missit shared, closed off to clients—while his throat healed fully, Missit insisting that he _not work at all_ until there was not even a remote risk of re-opening the wound. Drift was on-edge the entire walk to the brothel; deep in his struts he was still shook-up from his confrontation with Killgauge two days before, leaving him glancing over his shoulder and wishing he had any other alt-mode, one less energy-consumptive, so he could _drive_ and not fear it burning through all the energon he had left. 

He still hadn’t heard from Megatron. He hoped the miner was alive.

As he took the back steps up—the ones that led to the rooms you couldn’t access from the brothel entrance-proper—he vaguely wondered if he was being selfish by visiting Chromantic while in such a bitter mood, but Chromantic’s expression of delight when he answered the knock at his room door quieted it. 

“Hey sweet—” he choked on the word, forcing Killgauge, the _weight_ of him, from his mind. “Hey, Chrom.”

Chromantic gave him a concerned look; somehow he _knew_ , forgoing the hug he’d usually sweep Drift up into in favor of holding out his hand for Drift to take, if he wanted. Giving him the choice. 

Drift took his hand, and Chromantic smiled, leading him into the room. 

_Hi Drift,_ Chromantic signed. _I’m relieved to see you._

“Still in one piece,” Drift joked, but he couldn’t maintain the grin for long.

 _How is work?_ Chromatic asked.

 _Well, I hate every single one of them. So, the same as always._ Sometimes it was easier to speak in hand than it was to speak certain things aloud.

 _You poor thing,_ Chromantic said sympathetically. _Are you alright?_

 _Eh, it could be worse._ Drift shrugged. _I’m okay. Nothing happened._

_I’m here. You can tell me if you need._

_I know. I’m okay._

Some old song played on the radio—one of the vintage crooners Gasket had always been so fond of. Chromantic gave him one of his sad smiles. Grasping his hands, Chromantic pulled Drift into a close dance. 

_This alright?_ Chromantic asked.

_Yes._

Drift fell into following Chromantic’s lead easily, Chromantic silently mouthing along to the words of the song as they swayed. A pang of guilt shot through Drift’s spark. He hoped, desperately, that Chromantic would still be able to sing once his throat healed. His voice put the mech singing on the radio to shame. When Chromantic would put on impromptu performances for the other streetmechs, it always lifted everyone’s mood; those times were among Drift’s most precious memories, one of the few he kept playing in the back of his mind so the damage in his long-term memory cortex couldn’t corrode them.

 _How are you feeling?_ Drift asked.

_I’m doing better. I keep trying to use my vocalizer. It hurts._

_Stop that._

Chromantic stifled a laugh, and winced.

“Shit, sorry, I’m sorry,” Drift said. “Impulse.”

 _You ass,_ Chromantic signed.

_Learned it from the finest._

Chromantic lightly smacked his arm, but he was smiling, which is what Drift wanted to see, however brief.

 _It’s got me feeling lazy though,_ Chromantic said. _Missit’s been having to work so much to cover our housin’ here while I can’t._

 _I think he’d rather you keep off the street_ , Drift said sympathetically. 

_I hate it._ The raw bitterness and resentment in Chromantic’s field was potent. They stopped swaying, Chromantic looking down at his feet, his lips pursed. _I used to be less bothered by it. I can deal with these bastards treatin’ me badly, but seeing them treat him that way… they don’t even know what a precious thing they’re handlin’ when they touch him. They wouldn’t care. It’s the way they treat all of us. It breaks my spark._

“Chromantic…” Drift pulled his friend into a hug, tucking Chromantic close.

 _I love him too much. It’s hard._ In spite of his words, Chromantic’s field continued to broadcast that bitterness—that, and a spiteful rage that lay just beneath the surface. Drift knew the feeling all too well—these days, it was all he ever felt. It seemed it was one of _those_ nights, for the both of them. 

_I’m sorry sweetspark,_ he said, and he meant it.

 _No. I know you’d gut the Dead End and turn it inside-out if you could. You deserve so much more, Drift. I don’t want you apologisin’ to me._ Chromantic’s grip on Drift’s hands tightened, a certain resolve to the set of his mouth. He pulled Drift along, sitting the both of them on the edge of the chaise. _I don’t know what you’re up to. I know it’s got somethin’ to do with that miner. I trust you. No matter what happens, you can’t let them scare you into stoppin’. If they go after me, if they go after Missy, we’ll handle it. We’ve been takin’ care of each-other ‘fore you were sittin’ on that Dead End street without a memory in your pretty lil’ head, and we’ll do it ’til we’re dead._

“Chrom—”

_I’m not goin’ down easy. I ain’t givin’ them the satisfaction. I don’t fear death, Drift. I fear this bein’ all there is to livin’. My life ain’t worth stoppin’ the turnin’ cogs over, sweetspark, ‘member?_

Chromantic’s words left Drift with feelings too snarled to pick apart and make sense of. Part of him understood what Chromantic was saying — was grateful, even, that Chromantic sought to absolve him of the guilt that the Senate had tried to instill in order to control him. Part of him was guilty nonetheless; the last thing he ever wanted to see was Chromantic, Missit, or anyone else here hurt. He’d wanted to _protect_ them, not turn into the very reason they were threatened. Part of him was horrified — incensed, even — at how little Chromantic valued his own life. Part of him understood it completely. Everyone here would be considered nothing more than collateral damage.

Once a Dead End skiv, always a Dead End skiv. 

“I won’t let them use you to hurt me,” Drift said softly, little more than a whisper.

_We’re not going to let them either. We’re gonna work somethin’ out. I jus’ need to heal, an’ we need a lil’ time._

_Is there anything I can do to help?_ Drift asked.

_You do enough—_

_No._ Drift interrupted Chromantic’s gesture, pressing his own firmly into his hands. _If there is something I can do, you let me know. If it’s credits you need, I’ll get ‘em. You ask me to not worry ‘bout you, you let me help you in return so I don’t gotta worry._

“Please, Chromantic,” he said aloud. 

_Okay,_ Chromantic conceded. _We’ll tell you, sweetspark. I promise._

Drift’s internal comm pinged. The transferred information packet contained nothing more than a set of coordinates sent by Megatron. Drift frowned. 

_Is something wrong?_ Chromantic asked, immediately concerned. 

“I’m not sure. It’s Megatron,” Drift said. There was no follow-up providing any context—the location, and nothing more. Drift was alarmed. “I need to go.”

_I can come with._

Drift shook his head. “No. I’m not getting you into any more trouble.”

 _You tell me if something is wrong,_ Chromantic demanded. _You can rely on me, Drift._

“I will,” Drift promised. “And I’ll let you know if it’s nothin’ and we’re safe.”

 _You better. Go help your poet-boy._ Chromantic pecked Drift’s cheek.

Drift gave Chromantic’s hands a quick squeeze, then turned and left, praying that he’d be able to tell Chromantic that there was nothing to worry about soon enough, and feeling as though that wouldn’t be the case.

* * *

The coordinates sent to Drift led him to the shuttle platform—the abandoned one on the south side that used to run between the now-Dead End and neighboring Petrex. It had been shut down long ago, before Drift’s time, when the governing force of Petrex decided that no one _needed_ to go to the Dead End, and that keeping the line running would ‘entice their citizens to the degeneracy of interclass mingling’. Missit had talked about it a few times. He hadn’t minced his words on the matter, either. 

Drift found Megatron sitting on the steps, staring off into the empty air. That alone unnerved Drift more than he had already been. He looked about, wary, expecting for this to be a set-up somehow. No one lurked in the shadows, and the results of a quick, dirty proximity scan showed Megatron and no one else. Nonetheless, Drift approached cautiously, all-too aware of how exposed he was under the streetlight near the shuttle-stop. He kept glancing over his shoulder, tensed, until he drew mere paces away from Megatron—the street remained silent. 

“Megatron?” Drift called softly, crouching down in front of him. It took a moment before Megatron seemed to come back to himself and looked at Drift.

The poet’s plating was dented and scuffed. His lip was split and swollen, darkened from spilled energon. A bruise blushed his cheek. He looked miserable; defeated.

“You were right,” Megatron said. “They don’t care. They… they _won’t_ care. We can’t make them.”

Drift reached out and gently stroked his hands down Megatron’s forearms. Megatron didn’t flinch at the touch, which was a good sign. 

“What happened?” Drift asked.

“There was a fight at the oilhouse. I wasn’t in it. The Enforcers arrested me anyway. He beat me within an inch of my life in that cell.” The facts were stated bluntly and impassively. 

Drift’s fuel-pump dropped. “Megatron—”

“I was in handcuffs. I didn’t _do_ anything. I _couldn’t_ do anything. But it didn’t matter, he just—” Megatron’s voice cracked as the reality of the situation seemed to overwhelm him all at once. He dropped his helm into his hands. His shoulders heaved in a sob, but the sound that clawed its way out of his vocalizer was quiet and broken. 

Drift shuffled closer, sliding his arms beneath Megatron’s, reaching. 

“C’mere,” Drift said gently. 

Megatron lifted his head, letting Drift gather him close as he could kneeling beneath the curve of his body as he was. Megatron immediately clung to Drift, firm but not too tight, his large frame causing him to nearly envelop the speedster in his arms. 

This had been inevitable. Drift could tell himself that with certainty, but that didn’t change how he felt as though he should have… protected Megatron, somehow, or _warned_ him better. Megatron wasn’t like Drift—he hadn’t worked as a streetmech, wasn’t from the Dead End, didn’t know how ready and willing the Enforcers were to abuse the people they held in the cells, who couldn’t fight back, who they wouldn’t let go until they took what they wanted from them. 

Drift thought about Killgauge and the panic he’d felt pinned against the wall. He thought about what might have happened if he didn’t _have_ thrusters. Terror and anxiety welled in his spark and he tightened his embrace on Megatron, letting himself take comfort in the embrace as much as he was offering it for the kliks it took to wrestle his fear of the all-too-real _what-ifs_ aside and ground himself in the moment. With one hand he stroked the back of Megatron’s dented helm where it had dropped onto Drift’s shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry, Megatron. I really am.” He kept his touch gentle as he could as he felt out the indentation. The miner’s helm was far from _thin_ ; Drift cringed at the thought of how hard they must have struck him to cause it to buckle.

“Hurts.” Megatron’s voice was muffled against Drift’s shoulder. He pulled his hand away the moment he realized what Megatron had said. 

“Shit, sweetspark, I’m sorry.” 

“Not the helmet. Hurts underneath.” 

_Helmet._ Not helm. Drift would take him to Ratchet, but he knew the medic wasn’t here right now, and wouldn’t be for a long while yet, if he came back at all — because one of these days, he wouldn’t. It was only a matter of time before that well ran dry. 

After a moment of consideration, Drift moved his hands. The angle was difficult, close to Megatron as he was, but he managed to slide his thumbs across the bottom edge of his helm, until he felt the telltale catch of clasps. 

“Do you want—?” Drift let the question trail off, uncertain if he should even finish it.

After a moment, he felt Megatron give the slightest of nods against his shoulder.

“I’ll be gentle,” Drift promised, as he unsnapped the clasps. 

Megatron let out a soft grunt as Drift eased the helmet from his head. His arms fell from around Drift as he leaned away, letting the gunner stand and see his helm better. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Drift breathed.

Drift had seen a fair number of mechs without their protective helm-casing before, but it wouldn’t have prepared him for the beautiful gold-lined crest beneath Megatron’s helmet. Megatron took the helmet from Drift, freeing his hands. Carefully, he traced a finger along one of the crest-plates, and it unfurled, like the petals of a blooming flower. 

He knew a thing or two about hyper-sensitive sensornet clusters — his finials were the same, and when those were bent, dented, or grabbed, it had always been excruciating, the overwhelming sensory feedback nearly worse than the pain itself. Seeking out the petal he could see had been bent, he slid his hand just beneath the joint where it connected to his helm. After a few tries, he knew he’d pressed in the right spot when Megatron made noise of surprise.

“How you feelin’?” Drift prompted.

“It hurts much less,” Megatron replied. 

“That’s what I like to hear. Hold still while I straighten this out.” Keeping his fingers pressed to the base of the petal, Drift’s other hand set to working on coaxing the misaligned hinge back into place. It wouldn’t cure the pain, but it’d do a lot toward Megatron’s self-repair taking care of it faster. 

“How did you learn this?” Megatron asked.

“Figured it out. My finials are a lot like your crest here—whole lotta sensors packed into one little place. They don’t like bein’ handled, n’ mechs liked handlin’ them.”

“What are you doing to cut off the pain, exactly?”

“What’s with all these questions now?” 

“I want to be a medic,” Megatron reminded him. “Not that I can, not with…”

“I think it’s got somethin’ to do with energon flow,” Drift said quickly, trying to keep Megatron’s thoughts from wandering back to that place long as he could. “Can’t say for sure, but it’s got that feel that you get when you fix out a cricked line. You apply even pressure, just above the connection. The exact spot changes per frametype.” 

It was at that moment that Drift finished realigning the hinge.

“I’m gonna let go now—you tell me if it’s better or nah,” Drift said. He lifted his hands from Megatron’s helm, watching as Megatron grit his teeth through the initial throbbing before it lessened to something tolerable once more.

“It it’s much better,” Megatron said. He looked up at Drift. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t need to then,” Drift replied. “Can’t say I’ve got any way of fixin’ your helmet.”

Megatron turned the helmet over in his hands, considering. He rested it on his knees. Planting his thumbs on the dent inside the helm, he pushed down hard, the tremble in his elbow struts telling of the strength he put into it. The metal gave abruptly, popping back into place with a muffled sound. Drift let out a low whistle at the show of strength. Megatron put his helm back on. The damage was still apparent, but it wouldn’t dig painfully into his sensory crest.

Drift watched as Megatron tenderly prodded his own split lip, jerking his hand away at the sting. He made to touch it again, but Drift caught his hand.

“You’ll keep it bleedin’ like that,” he chastised. 

Megatron let his hand drop with a heavy ex-vent. The weary slouch in his backstruts said more than words would. Drift felt he was at a loss for things to offer that would help when a thought occurred to him. 

“You know how to throw a punch?” Drift asked.

“How to punch?” Megatron repeated, his expression answering Drift’s question well enough.

“Here, up.” Drift said, shepherding the miner to stand. Megatron’s confusion seemed to cut through his distress, and he obliged without complaint. Drift stepped back. “Alright. Hit me.”

Megatron’s vocalizer stuttered and reset with a click, before he uttered a bewildered “ _What?_ ” 

“Come on.” Drift spread his arms out with a wry grin. “Take a shot.” 

“Drift I’m not going to punch you.” 

“Take the _shot_ , Megatron,” Drift ordered.

Drift stared up at Megatron, not backing down. Eventually Megatron conceded; he curled his fingers into a fist and— 

“ _Up-up-up_ no, nope. Stop there.” 

Megatron stilled immediately, confused. He watched as Drift stepped close, rising on his pedetips to grasp Megatron’s fist and guide it down so it was held between them, palm-up.

“First rule of throwin’ a punch.” Drift pulled Megatron’s thumb out from where he’d tucked it inside the fist. He pressed Megatron’s fingers in tighter, with his thumb tucked along the outside, curled just beneath the mid row of knuckle struts. “Never tuck the thumb in. You hit someone like that, and your thumb will break at the bottom strut here. These two—” Drift tapped the knuckles of Megatron’s pointer and middle finger, “are what you’re gonna be hittin’ with. Not all four of ‘em. This middle knuckle here is the foundation, ‘cause it’s a direct line through the wrist up your arm. You try to hit with the last two an’ you’re tiltin’ your hand a way that’s gonna hurt. Got it?”

Megatron nodded. With one hand still cupping Megatron’s fist, Drift stepped to the side and placed his other hand on Megatron’s elbow joint. 

“You never wanna swing—you’ll hurt either your elbow or shoulder strut, and your punch will suck. It's pushin', not swingin’. Needs to come from the shoulder.” Drift guided Megatron’s arm so it was drawn back, fist tucked just beneath his shoulder, palm still upwards. “Loosen up, you’re too stiff. Turn your shoulders.” 

Megatron did as instructed. Drift hummed his approval. 

“So, the punch comes from the shoulder—” Drift drew Megatron’s arm outwards, walking him through the motion slowly, “—to the elbow. At the last klik is when you twist your hand.” As Megatron’s arm extended, Drift guided his fist to turn, so the top of his hand faced upward at the end. “That torque is what’s gonna give you the impact. Now try it.” 

Drift stepped away, giving Megatron room to test it out. He worked through the motion slowly once, twice, before trying a few quicker jabs. He paused, and looked at Drift. 

“Eh, you’re new, but that’s the idea. Now for the important bit. You’re thinkin’ of hittin’ the target right now, but that ain’t how it works.” Drift stepped in front of Megatron. Before Megatron could react, Drift punched him, his knuckles making a dull _thump_ on Megatron’s chest, the impact not hard enough to hurt. Drift grinned at him. “Look at my arm. See how it’s locked straight?” 

Megatron looked to where Drift was gesturing with his other hand at his own elbow strut. He nodded.

“I’m guessing you don’t want that?” Megatron asked.

“Nope. Blunts the impact. When you’re punchin’ someone, you don’t wanna think about hittin’ them, you wanna think about punchin’ _through_ ‘em.” Drift made to punch at Megatron again, this time going through the motion slowly. When his knuckles pressed against Megatron’s chassis, Drift’s elbow was still bent a fair bit. “Then you got that extra bit to nail it in.” Drift pushed the rest of the motion through, which given the vast difference of their frame type, only served to rock the speedster back on his heels instead of moving Megatron at all. Drift chuffed. “You’re a big bastard, but the point stands.” 

“What do I do with the other hand?” Megatron asked.

“Up.” Drift lifted his other arm, forearm held before his face, hand fisted. “Protect the face. Fist above the optics. Else you’re gonna end up punchin’ yourself in the face if someone knocks your arm.”

Megatron mimicked the stance, looking at his own forearm uncertainly. 

“Yeah that’s the idea.” Drift gave him a sad smile. “Won’t help much in cuffs, I know. But it helps knowin’ that if your hands were free you could fight them off.” 

Drift sat down on the steps, elbows rested on his knees, posture lazy. He wished he had a cy-garette on him and settled for chewing at his lip. It was becoming a habit. 

“Thank you again,” Megatron said, as he sat beside Drift.

“No need to thank me.”

“I think they’re going to relocate me,” Megatron admitted, after a moment. “I don’t know for certain. I have this… _feeling_ , however. It’s persistent.” 

“It’s good to listen to your intuition. ’s a thing we have for a reason.” 

“I believe this may be the last we see of one another for a long while,” Megatron stated, and something in Drift likewise knew the same. 

“Folks down here will miss you,” Drift commented, leaning his chin on the back of his hand as he looked at Megatron from the corner of his eye. “You really got through to some of ‘em.”

“They got through to me. You got through to me. I don’t deserve the credit.” 

“Said it before, and I’ll say it again—you’re wisenin’ up, poet-boy. So, what now?”

“I don’t know,” Megatron replied. “I know things are going to become much more complicated.” 

“You gonna keep writin’?”

“Do you think I should?”

“I think—” Drift reached up, brushing dirt off of Megatron’s collar faring with a sweep of his thumb, “—that it’d be a waste if you let ‘em get to you now. They already want you dead. What are a few more fancy-written words?” 

Megatron gave him a soft smile, and Drift’s spark ached at how _young_ he still seemed. Too young for what had already happened to him, for the worse things that were bound to come. Life wasn’t kind, and life wasn’t fair. No manner of _feelings_ on the matter were going to change that. Drift pulled his hand back as Megatron straightened and rooted around in a subspace compartment in his side. 

“I want you to have this.” Megatron held out a datapad; one of the edges was scuffed, the screen cracked. When Drift took it, his thumb brushed the screen, and it flickered on, still functional despite its battered state. 

Drift frowned. “You know I can’t—”

“Read it, I know. I want you to have it anyway.”

“What is it?” Drift asked. 

“A rough draft.”

“This is what you were talkin’ from when I saved your aft at that readin’,” Drift realized.

“There’s that, and then some.”

“Megatron, I can’t take this, you need—” The miner’s hands covered Drift’s as he held the datapad out for Megatron to take back.

“I have another copy,” Megatron said. “I want you to have the original. I don’t want to lose it, and I don’t want anyone else to take it. This way, when we meet again, I will be able to read that again and see how far I’ve lost track of what I learned in the revisions.” 

Drift looked down at the datapad in his hand. He tightened his hold on it.

“Sure, alright. I’ll keep it safe, in the meantime.” Drift tilted his head back and held Megatron’s gaze. “You better be comin’ back for it. I’m not luggin’ this thing ‘round until I’m dead.” 

“I will.” Megatron lifted one of Drift’s hands and gently pressed his lips to Drift’s scuffed knuckles. 

Empty fondness? Maybe. Maybe more, that _more_ that Drift had known Megatron to want since their second time meeting, perhaps. The maybe that would never come to pass, because Drift’s spark had already belonged to a medic who gave kindness to the people no one else would, from the moment Drift had awoke on that berth, vulnerable, blind, petrified, and was kept _safe_ , even from the Enforcer who’d sought to arrest him. Drift pitied Megatron for it, but this was the boldest Megatron had been yet, and now wasn’t the moment for disabusing him of any hopes. This would be a moment Megatron carried with him, as he strode away into the uncertainty of Drift ever seeing him again; Megatron himself had determined that, when he gave Drift the datapad. If Megatron’s naive endearment was something that would keep the poor poet alive in a world that sought to kill him… well. Drift of the Dead End wouldn’t be the one to pen his obituary.

“In one piece,” Drift added, because he had little else to say.

Megatron simply smiled, that closed-lipped, crooked smile of his. He gave Drift’s hand a squeeze. For a moment it seemed as though he had something else to say; instead, he shook his head, near-imperceptibly, and released Drift’s hand.

It was the last time Drift would see the poet, for longer than he ever could have anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking care of other people is one of the ways Drift is able to feel as though he has control over his own situation.
> 
> Also poppet-valve is a canon insult from the comics and I thought it was so goddamn weird I immediately wanted to use it.
> 
> Come bother me on tumblr: weapon-up-wallflower


	8. Older, Plainer, Saner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter warnings for this one.  
> This chapter fought me the entire damn time.
> 
> Chapter soundtrack:  
> [Noro - Brand New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ph-n4QQvKbs)  
> [Strange - LP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CV3KnoGeUPU) \- _Missit and Chromantic's theme_

The Clampdown hit the Dead End harder than anywhere else. The Dead End, by nature, relied on the gutter tourists it loathed and who loathed it to survive. A curfew meant more restrictions, more surveillance, more Enforcers determined to ‘clean it up’ by locking empties up and doing nothing for the addictions or toxins that eroded them from the inside as they lay dying in their ‘care’. It meant energon was harder to earn, harder to find, harder to steal. It meant they grew more desperate.

Drift kept his head down, bit back his words, pointed his gun where Rook told him to, took the pay that pulling the trigger got him. The credits that he didn’t need himself, that he didn’t waste on syk when the cravings became too much or his life too abysmal, he gave to Chromantic and Missit, who accepted it with reluctance.

Missit and Chromantic were leaving, for Carpressa. They’d scrimped and saved for the past few years; it had taken Drift a long time to get them to accept his help, but if one thing made the work Drift did worth it, it was the thought that he could get them out. They had a chance that Drift didn’t, that Fuse didn’t, for separate reasons. The Dead End’s embrace was too tight on them. 

The years passed. Life in the Dead End grew more difficult.

And on the tongue of everyone he knew, there were Megatron’s words.

They were calling themselves ‘Decepticons’—those who read Megatron’s samizdat writings and in turn thought to act upon them. They demanded change. They held readings, talks, rallies. They met in secrecy, hid from the prying eyes of the Enforcers and the mercenaries the Senate sent to root them out. Drift had observed a few of these meetings, watched in silence as they debated solutions, tactics, arguments, how to not be the ones deemed ‘expendable’. No one had any more an answer for that than Drift himself did, when he’d asked Megatron that question all those years ago.

He stopped going to them after the third time. They were just going to get themselves killed.

Megatron had been transported off-world, to a mining colony, Ravage had told him, a few months after Drift had last seen the miner. He hadn’t known which one in particular. Drift hadn't asked him how he knew, and Ravage hadn't said. The beastformer had hung around for some time afterwards, took the cy-garette and amicable silence Drift had offered him.

Drift hadn’t even noticed he’d left until he looked up to find Ravage gone and the grate to his vent displaced once more. He wasn’t certain why he bothered with it anymore. He wasn’t certain how much longer he’d be living here anyhow; he’d found his landlord dead in the neighboring flat he’d lived in, as derelict as the rest of the building. Drift wasn’t certain who or what had killed him.As he’d looked at the sorry mech’s slumped body, he decided it wasn’t worth it to find out. No one asked after him, satisfied to pretend as though nothing had happened in favor of saving the scant credits they had. Someone would come to collect eventually. They always did. Drift intended to make himself scarce when that came to pass, but not until then. 

So Drift laid there, back on his berth and feet braced on the wall, as he stared at the ceiling through the haze of the smoke curl of his cyg, wasting away time in between jobs in the way he’d taken up as the Clampdown stretched on. He’d seek out Chromantic and Missit if he weren’t trying to keep his distance out of fear for their safety. Fuse was even more difficult to keep track of than he’d already been — any attempt on Drift’s part to console him or try to offer help was immediately shut down. 

He still kept an eye on Ratchet’s clinic. The Enforcers seemed willing to overlook that, at least. He supposed there was some benefit to the doctor being friendly with Rodion's Chief of Police, even if it made Drift’s plating crawl to think about. 

Drift let his legs fall to the side, rolling over to retrieve the datapad on the floor—the one Megatron had given him. It turned on with a flicker, still-functional. 

He had bought a bootleg information download off of a back-alley dealer not long after he’d last seen Megatron. Programs like those were notoriously sketchy—stories of them being littered with malware that left a mech’s processor destroyed were common. He had figured it couldn’t do worse than the damage his processor already endured, in any case. It was worth it to be able to read—not perfectly at first, but the small vernacular thesaurus it gave him had been enough for him to build out the rest manually. 

Scrolling through the contents, Drift found the entry he’d left off on. 

The draft Megatron had spoken of only amounted to perhaps a fifth of the datapad’s contents. The rest was an eclectic mess; collections of personal adages from the Dead Enders, pieces of words to the gutter songs Megatron must have overheard one or another mech singing and hastily written down, scraps of poetry that Megatron hadn’t finished quite yet. There were even notes from a conversation he’d apparently had with Missit and Chromantic—though Drift remembered them mentioning as much, he hadn’t thought much on the talks Megatron apparently paid them for, and seeing the other end of that perspective had been an unusual experience. 

The entry Drift kept returning to was the list of questions—questions that Megatron had been asked and had no good answer to. There, at the top, in bold, separated from the rest, without the half-formed thoughts that followed the questions below it:

WHAT WILL THE DEAD END FUEL ON? 

Drift looked at the list, sighed, and swiped his thumb across the screen, sending the pages flipping as it scrolled through the document. He tapped it, stopping on a random entry, and settled in to continue reading, only to realize he’d settled on one of the songs Megatron had only caught a mere snippet of.

_____, won’t you let it go_

_Our shift’s not for ____ or so_

_Rest your head, and we’ll let go_

_From_ _th__

His comm pinged. Ignoring it, Drift tapped on the page, and began to type, filling in the missing pieces and fixing what was wrong. Drift knew the song well. Gasket had sung it to him, years ago.

_My dear love, won’t you let it go_

_Our shift’s not for an hour or so_

_Rest your head, and we’ll lay low_

_From the dust, tinposies__

His comm pinged in the midst of the line, again, urgent.

Turning off the datapad, Drift received the internal packet. It was an immediate summons from Rook—he had an assignment to carry out. 

Lovely.

* * *

“You will be posted on the roof of this living complex, on the corner adjacent to Maccadam’s Old Oilhouse,” Rook said, a hologram of the city block appearing on the projector in the middle of the round table they gathered beside. “The building is undergoing renevation, and will be cleared of workers for the night. At approximately 11:54 tonight, Senator Sherma will leave the Riggs of Petrex Cultural Philosophy Center after the ending of a debate forum—he’s been known to stay behind and converse with speakers—and at 12:09, he will cross this bridge here—” Rook double-tapped on a bridge crossing the main throughway, an arrow projecting the direction Sherma was expected to be walking, “—on his way back to the hotel in which he’s staying. A brief ten-minute black-out is scheduled to take place scheduled at 12:00 in this sector to allow for electrical infrastructure maintenance.

“You will have one shot at landing this in the bag,” Rook stated, leveling Drift with a look. “You’re the most surefire shooter we have. Don’t fuck this up.”

Drift had been partnered with Emisshot for the job; Drift on execution, Emisshot on clean-up. It wasn’t the worst it could have been—Emisshot treated work as work, took it seriously, liked his pay, left his ego at home. 

The job itself was a high-profile headhunt—a Senator. Sherma of Stanix. Drift knew nothing about him, other than he was a member of the Intellectual Class, had a hobby in anthropology, and would be dead by the end of the cycle.

Whoever Rook’s contact for this was, they were someone able to pull the strings to an extent that made Drift on-edge. The tram was completely empty when they’d taken it—partway to Iacon, it abruptly switched to a maintenance track, as Rook had told them it would, allowing them to bypass the checkpoint that was set up during the Clampdown. The tram whistled through the pitch-black of the maintenance tunnels before letting them off beside a shaft that led to the surface.

From there they parted ways—Drift made his way to the roof from where he would take the shot, and Emisshot disappeared to linger near the drop-point. Whatever “clean up” meant for this job, Drift wasn’t certain.

The roof’s ground was cool as Drift kneeled on it, setting up the sniper rifle and settling in to wait. He ran through the parameters of the job again in his mind, checked the time, then opened a comm call to Emisshot.

“So what’s the grudge with this Sherma?” Drift asked.

_“Rook didn’t tell ya?”_ Emisshot replied.

“It was a rushed run-down,” Drift lied. “Didn’t get the chance to ask.”

He suspected Rook had intentionally not told him, but Emisshot didn’t need to know that.

“ _He’s a Decepticon sympathizer,_ ” came the answer. “ _Senate wants him dead._ ” 

Drift sneered, disgusted. “What, we workin’ for the _Senate_ now? I thought the bounty on Megatron’s head was a one-off. An’ since when were they killin’ their own?”

_“I guess the price tag caught Rook’s optic. ’sides, it’s the Senate. Let ‘em start killin’ each other off. For the better, I say.”_

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. 

_“It’s an act of charity. He dies, and we get paid and exorbitant sum fer his corpse. Redistribution of wealth, like the miner’s always on ‘bout.”_

“Not how it works. We’re shootin’ ourselves in the foot here.” 

_“You’re startin’ to sound like a problem here, drifter. You gon’ shoot him or no?”_

Drift grit his teeth. He considered saying no. He considered severing ties to the Underground, considered throwing his lot in with the Decepticons. 

The lights went out. Drift’s vision switched over to night-mode, the world washed in a green haze. He watched as a lone figure appeared around the corner, his walk easy as he made his way across the bridge.

The line crackled with static as Emisshotsnorted derisively. _“Killgauge was right ‘bout you, you’re goin’ soft.”_

_Killgauge._

Drift felt sick, and angry.

He raised the sniper rifle and aimed. The trigger clicked. Sherma crumpled, fell, and lay unmoving.

“ _Well then, mark me wrong. Killgauge doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout._ ”

“Stop runnin’ your mouth and pull your weight,” Drift snapped, irritably.

“ _Not soft at all,_ ” he heard Emisshot say again before he cut the line.

* * *

Drift came down with a gasp. His frame sunk into the berth, loose-limbed, plating pinging from the heat as he relaxed in a pleasurable haze. Gentle hands massaged his plating, soothing. 

“Good?” Chromantic asked, ever-so-slightly smug.

Drift hummed contentedly, optics closed as his wiggled his fingers in Chromantic’s general direction. “C’mere,” he said, the demand muffled by his face being pressed to the berth.

Behind him, Missit laughed. “Someone’s gettin’ spoilt,” he teased.

“Blame the mechs who keep on _insistin’_ on spoilin’ ‘im,” Drift shot back, tugging Chromantic into his arms and pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“Dug our own grave there,” Missit conceded, laying down to snuggle close and drape an arm over Drift and Chromantic both.

“Not a terrible way to die,” Chromantic commented.

A comfortable silence fell over them. Missit tucked his face into the curve of Drift’s neck, a warm presence against his back. Chromantic traced the features of Drift’s face with a fingertip, over his cheek, tracing the edge of his forehelm plates and down the bridge of his nose and across his lips. 

These moments were things Drift would give anything to keep, somewhere safe, somewhere far from here; the fragrance of the sweet oil that Missit preferred in the wrinkled sheets of the berth, the soft bands of filtered light that played across Chromantic’s optics as the tarp in the window fluttered in the hot wind, the radio playing half-static and the nearby clacking of the tram over the tracks drowning all other noises of the Dead End. 

Chromantic’s touch left his face in favor of grasping Drift’s hand in his, tangling their fingers together. 

“ _Things keep gettin’ harder ‘round here_ ,” Chromantic signed. “ _I’m worried ‘bout leavin’ you in all of this_.” 

Drift turned so that he was on his back. Chromantic readjusted, laying his head on Drift’s shoulder. 

“I can take care of myself, Chrom.” For better or for worse. Drift thought of the gun that lay hidden in the subspace compartment in his thigh, a permanent fixture.

“We know you can,” Missit said, giving Drift the impression that this was a conversation the two of them have had more than once. “You were pickin’ more fights with gutter tourists than you were turnin’ tricks near the end there.”

“They should’ve treated you with a lil’ more respect if they wanted to keep their teeth,” Drift groused. Chromantic giggled and pecked Drift’s cheek.

Missit didn’t reply, seemingly lost in thought as he worried at his lower lip with a thumb. A draft wafted through the room, and Missit shifted closer, drawing the berth’s blankets higher over them and turning on his heater to keep them wrapped in warmth. His pensive expression remained, however.

“You okay?” Drift prompted.

Missit sighed. “You’re gonna hate me for sayin’ this—”

“Never gonna hate you for sayin’ nothin’, Missy,” Drift interjected.

“—but I’m grateful Pax was there that night.”

Drift wrinkled his nose in distaste, and Missit laughed.

“Hate me now?” he teased.

“No,” Drift said. “But I hate him.”

“I know sweetspark,” Missit replied, sadly. “I do too. But… we almost lost you, an’ I’m grateful _someone_ was there to stop it.”

“Don’t know why he bothered. Overheard him and Ratchet talkin’ while I was comin’-to. They were mercs, not Pax’s own guys — or so he said. So I guess that was his excuse.” Drift grit his teeth. “He threatened to arrest me the moment he saw I was conscious.”

“You’re angry,” Missit said softly—not accusing.

“I was _blind, deaf,_ and _paralyzed,_ Missit. I’m, what, supposed to take an _enforcer_ at his word? I’m supposed to believe it _conveniently_ was two random mercs’ who took it upon themselves to help Pax ‘clean up the Dead End’? I’m supposed to be grateful to him that I’m not _dead?_ That they didn’t…” He reset his vocalizer. “That it wasn’t _worse?_ Pit, it might’ve _been him_ beatin’ the shit outta me for all I know.”

“You’re not. _I_ am, and it’s selfish of me, I know. Not grateful to _him_ for doin’ the decent thing, but grateful that you’re still with us.” Missit propped himself up on his elbow and placed his hand on Drift’s cheek, turning his face to look him in the eye. The gentle touch chased the tension from Drift’s frame. “I’m sorry, Drift. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Drift kissed Missit, tender and sweet as he knew how to. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Drift said. 

“Oh, we’re going to miss you sweetspark,” Missit said, running a thumb over the tired creases beneath Drift’s optic. 

Drift felt Chromantic’s arms tighten around his waist as the radio tucked his face into the side of his neck, pressing a kiss there, then another to the corner of his jaw. 

“It’s just as well we’re leavin’ now,” Chromantic said. “The Clampdown’s killed this place. No gutter tourist’s gonna come wanderin’ ‘round lookin’ for a cheap easy ‘face in the mornin’. We couldn’t afford to stay here even if we hadn’t been tryin’ so hard to get out.”

“You’re sure your contact is safe?” Drift asked, for not the first time. 

There was no shortage of opportunists eager to prey on Dead Enders looking to get out, willing to offer them safe passage and temporary boarding, only to rob them and leave them for dead, or otherwise trap them with debt and a lack of resources. 

“Guess we’ll find out,” Missit whispered, fear creeping into his field. 

Chromantic lifted a hand from Drift’s waist to rest it on Missit’s arm, squeezing gently. Drift reached out, and Missit let them guide him to lay back down, tucked close to Drift’s side, Chromantic holding Missit’s hand tightly in his own. 

It wasn’t lost on Drift, the futile motions they went through; trying to keep one another safe, trying to circumvent dangers that were inevitable, struggling to shove others out from beneath the crushing weight even as it bore down on them all. Drift couldn’t go with Missit and Chromantic and protect them from being preyed upon by whoever they were handing their lives and money for safe passage—he would only put them in more danger. Missit and Chromantic couldn’t save him from the mercenaries who’d nearly killed him back then, couldn’t help him out of the coffin he’d nailed himself into now. None of them could help Fuse, who they knew was in some trouble but who refused to be helped. They wouldn’t be able to stop Ratchet’s clinic from closing when it inevitably would; Drift couldn’t protect Megatron from the enforcer who beat him, or from being taken away.

Even now with a gun in hand and a kill count to his name, Drift felt as vulnerable as when he was getting high in the open street. The Senate could decide to order the execution of the Dead Enders in the morning and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. 

He closed his optics. He wondered if Megatron was dead.

* * *

Drift saw Missit and Chromantic off early in the morning. Their goodbye would have lasted longer, but the tram wasn’t about to wait for them. Chromantic embraced him for a long while, pressing a kiss to his cheek before they parted and leaving a whispered _thank you_ in his audial. Missit used the kiss he gave Drift as a distraction to press something into his hands.

“A little somethin’ to remember us by,” he said with a cheeky grin. 

Drift watched as the tram doors closed behind them, and the car pulled away from the station with a plume of noxious smoke and the chugging of pistons.

Drift didn’t believe in Primus. As the tram grew small, he prayed they would be safe regardless.

When the tram had faded from view, he looked down at what Missit had given him. A tin box of Tarnish Delights sat cradled in his hands. He turned it over in his hands with an amused huff. 

“Gonna have to eat these this time, huh,” he muttered to himself fondly. Then his brow furrowed. It was lighter than it should’ve been. He pried the lid open.

Inside, there lay curled two slips of paper—a tram ticket to Carpressa, and a note with Missit’s handwriting on it.

“ _For when it’s safe,"_ it read.

Drift’s vision fritzed at the edges as the sentiment choked him. Scrubbing the solvent from his eyes, he carefully shut the tin’s lid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's a wrap for Missit and Chromantic! Lovely ladies, glad to have had them on the show. Have fun in Carpressa, girls!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at weapon-up-wallflower or on twitter at @gunupwallflower


	9. The Ossuary is Filling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update! No chapter warnings for this one either. Hope you like dratchet.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [I'm Not a Saint - Billy Raffoul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ro5_Ur3kJPk)  
> [To Build a Home - The Cinematic Orchestra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUFJJNQGwhk)

Fuse was back beneath the flickering street lamp, sitting with his back to the pole, smoking. Not his usual corner—no, it was the one a block down from Ratchet’s clinic, the one that Drift often used to stake out the clinic and wait for the medic to lock up so he could trail him and ensure he got to the tram stop safely. 

It had been… months, since Drift had last seen Fuse, at _least_. Whatever trouble Fuse had gotten himself into years ago was something he’d hadn’t gotten out of. Any attempt on Drift’s part to reach out and help was immediately shut down. Fuse had always been that way, self-destructively stubborn and skittish. He used to be better. Gasket’s death had brought that back tenfold. Drift didn’t know how to help.

Fuse grinned around his cy-garette as Drift joined him, sitting on the pavement beneath the streetlight. 

“Long time no see, stranger,” Fuse quipped.

“Yeah, well that’s because your aft up an’ disappeared,” Drift shot back. He knew it wouldn’t help, knew he wouldn’t get an answer, but he couldn’t help but have his worry peek through the cracks. “Seriously, Fuse, where have you been?” 

“Oh, y’know, here an’ there. Wanted a change of scenery.”

“Uh _-huh_ ,” Drift said blandly, giving Fuse a disbelieving look. 

“Hey, I said it didn’t I? That corner got borin’.” 

“I didn’t take that to mean you’d disappear for _months._ ” 

“Well, I guess you don’t know me all that well after all,” Fuse said, agitated.

Drift grimaced at the slight.

“Sorry,” Fuse said. He offered Drift his cyg.

Drift _missed_ Fuse. That didn’t make it any easier to be around him. Even without Fuse’s increasingly erratic behavior, the wound of Gasket’s death still laid open between them, pink and raw. Drift had told Fuse that it wasn't his fault. Fuse didn’t believe him, and Drift couldn’t blame him for it, because they both knew that had Fuse not tried to wrestle the gun away from the Enforcer who’d pistol-whipped him, the shot that killed Gasket might’ve never gone off.

_“He was pointing the gun at Gasket already. We don’t know if any of us would’ve made it out alive.”_

_“No. He died because of me, Drift. I killed him.”_

It was an argument they never moved beyond, because in his spark, Drift wasn’t convinced Fuse wasn’t _right_ , and Fuse knew it.

That was an old wound, a tender spot they knew how to avoid. Whatever was wrong now, it was new. If that wasn’t it, Drift—well, Drift didn’t know _what_ it was. 

“Are you okay?” Drift asked, turning his head to look Fuse in the optic.

Fuse shifted uncomfortably. “Come on, Drift, let off it.” 

“Are you?” Drift repeated.

“Are _you_ okay?” Fuse challenged.

Drift opened his mouth, then realized he had no idea how he’d even answer that. His life was turning into something dangerous, more than it already had been. The teeth of the Dead End seemed sharper than they’d been in a long time, as though it felt that hunger that Megatron’s words had awoken in its residents, and now it sought to eat them whole. Drift felt it, Fuse felt it. Missit and Chromantic had run from it.

“Point made,” he conceded, and Fuse snickered. “Everythin’ aside—are you _feelin_ ’ alright now? Physically.”

Fuse's plating still looked too dull.

Fuse let out a frustrated huff and rolled his optics. “Primus you are stubborn. Yes, I’m _fine._ Jus’ picked up somethin’ weird—siphoned off a dirty line.” 

“Ratchet’s still there, we could go—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Fuse interrupted, brusque. “It’s nothin’ serious. I’m good now, it was jus’ a lot to handle then.”

Despite his flippant words, Fuse leaned on Drift for a moment, silently broadcasting his appreciation and thanks before putting distance between them again.

“Good, good,” Drift said, relieved. “That’s good.”

Fuse was easier to understand than Chromantic or Missit. He, like Drift, lacked whatever resolve Missit and Chromantic possessed that left them able to openly express more than the faintest threads of affection. It was too _vulnerable_. Physical comfort was all Drift had left to offer, something he only gave to those precious few.

Fuse understood that. They’d talked about it before, tossed around the thought that perhaps having a conjunx made it easier. Drift wasn’t entirely convinced that was it. He had seen some horrifically corrupt relationships that would leave one or the other partner completely ruined.

Or maybe he and Fuse were just too broken, and that’s why they were amica.

“So Missit and Chromantic left,” Fuse said, evidently mulling over things similar to Drift’s own thoughts. 

“You talked to them?” Drift asked.

“Yeah, I ran into ‘em a few days ago. Told me they were movin’ to… Carpressa? I’m glad to hear it. They deserve better than this.”

“We all do, Fuse.”

“ _Heh_. With the shit we’ve done?”

“We wouldn’t have done any of it if we weren’t left to _rot_ in the gutters.”

Fuse glanced at Drift over the curve of his shoulder. “Megatron’s really gotten to you, huh?” 

“The Dead End has gotten to me,” Drift said bitterly. 

Fuse hummed, chin propped on the heel of his hand, lazily rolling the cyg between the fingers of his other hand.

“Do you think they’re bonded?” Fuse asked abruptly. “Missy and Chrom.”

“At times I’ve thought they might be,” Drift said. “Then I’d think that there’s no way they’d be that stupid.”

Bonding was a thing for mechs _outside_ of the gutter. He wasn’t sure if he envied the security that belied or if he was just horrified at the thought, because even in a secure life, things _happen_ , and in Drift’s mind asking that of someone—to share your pain, to _feel_ your death—was horrific. He doubted the good parts of a bond outweighed it. Neither Missit nor Chromantic were selfish, not in that way.

“They might be that in love though,” Fuse said.

“True,” Drift conceded. “I could see that.”

“Wonder what it’s like.” 

“Love? Or bondin'?” 

“Eh, both. It seems painful, like it’d just get you a knife in the back—from who you’re in love with, probably.” 

“Seems to have worked out for Missy an’ Chrom well enough. I think it’s what’s keepin’ them alive.” 

“They’re the lucky ones,” Fuse decided.

Drift hummed. At least those two had one another, through thick or thin. 

“What do you think he would make all of this?” Fuse asked idly, taking the cyg when Drift offered it back.

“‘He’ who?”

“Gasket.”

Everything seemed to come back to Gasket, if they thought on things too long.

Drift chewed on his lower lip as he thought it over. What would Gasket make of this? Gentle Gasket, who held faith in an inherent goodness in everyone that got him killed. 

No matter how he looked at it, Drift struggled to see how Gasket would have stayed alive long enough to see this. Had those Enforcers not shot him _by accident_ , others later would have shot him _on purpose_ , for stealing their precious energon, or for sleeping on the street, or for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Good mechs like Gasket didn’t survive the Dead End. Drift had learned that lesson well in the time since his death.

“I think he would be worried 'bout the rest of us,” Drift decided. 

Down the block, the clinic door opened. Ratchet stepped out into the drab street and fumbled with the door’s lock. The medic stuck out like a sore thumb beneath the flickering streetlight as he tested the handle to just make sure the lock took, his frame not nearly scuffed or worn enough to fit in with the residents of the Dead End. He looked _tired_ enough for it though.The hour was late—Drift had genuinely thought that perhaps the doctor may have already left and simply forgot to turn off the lights.

“That sounds like Gasket,” Fuse agreed. “You think he would’ve been a ‘con?” 

Drift snorted. He stood, stretching. “Who isn’t, down here? It’s just whether or not you’re willin' to admit you’re throwin’ your lot in with them.”

“Some people still have somethin' to lose,” Fuse mused wryly, the implication blatant. 

Drift ignored it. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Yessir,” Fuse mocked with a jaunty salute as Drift jogged off to become the retreating medic’s shadow.

It wasn’t as though Drift was the only one keeping a well-intended optic on Ratchet—there were plenty them down in the gutter who owed the doctor more than they’d openly admit, and sought to repay the debt that Ratchet refused to acknowledge existed by doing what they could to make sure the clinic stayed safe. Even so, Drift was the only one of the mechs so far as he knew that he could trust to be capable of _doing something about it_ if something were to happen. 

More than that, in Drift’s life Ratchet had long become more than just some saintly figure to pay alms to. Drift hesitated to call him a _friend_ , but he supposed that’s what it would be called by the less emotionally-stunted. He hadn’t intended to grow close to Ratchet in the odd, familiar way they were. He’d hadn’t intended to fall for the medic. 

Life had never cared much about Drift’s intentions.

So he followed Ratchet, tailing along quietly as he always did, twenty paces behind and out of the line of sight. And Drift had expected it to just be that, a quiet walk with Ratchet, Drift, and his own ever-unspoken thoughts, until Ratchet’s steady pace shuffled to a stop.

“I know you’ve been following me to the shuttle every time I’m here, kid,” Ratchet said. “The clinic’s been shut down. So if you’re going to walk me home one last time… walk with me for once, will you?”

For a long moment, Drift considered refusing, keeping hidden, keeping up the ruse that he hadn’t been quietly seeing the doctor home safely for so long. It wasn’t the first time Ratchet had called him out on it, but he’d never risen to the acknowledgement. But Ratchet looked exhausted. It worried Drift. He knew he was too invested.

But… Ratchet was leaving, apparently. For good.

He slipped out of the shadows, disengaging his bootleg attention diversion modifications. Ratchet’s optics immediately darted to where Drift walked towards him now that he wasn’t subconsciously encouraged to overlook him. When Drift drew to his side — not too close, just besides — Ratchet continued to walk, slower now.

“The clinic’s shuttin’ down?” Drift prompted.

“A friend tipped me off,” Ratchet said. “The Senate doesn’t know about _my_ clinic yet, exactly, but they suspect something. I can’t justify keeping it open any longer. It’ll harm more than I can help.”

“So?”

“So what?” Ratchet’s field bristled with agitation as he looked at Drift. “You’re not angry?”

“That you shut the clinic down?” Drift asked. “Course not, Ratchet.” 

Ratchet gave him a long look, expression unreadable, before he turned on his heel and began marching away. Drift swore, aware that he’d just screwed up, and immediately took off after the irate medic. The last thing he wanted was for Ratchet to think he didn’t care.

Drift caught up to him, jogging backwards once he reached Ratchet so he could look the doctor in the eye. “Whoa, hey. Hey. That came out wrong and I’m sorry just… lemme explain what I meant?”

Ratchet stopped walking, his expression wary. But he gave Drift a nod, gives Drift permission. He’s listening. 

Drift took a deep invent and let it out in a rush.

“Yeah, I’m upset ‘bout the clinic, but I’m not angry at _you_ ,” Drift explained. “There was no way your clinic was gonna stay open long. All of us down here? We knew that. No one’s gonna say you’ve decided we’re not worth it and closed up shop, and if someone does they’re gonna get put right real quick. Just by being here you’ve done so much more for us than anyone else has, Ratch. You gave skivs from the Dead End like me a chance and treated us like anyone.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that,” Ratchet said.

“Nothin’ but the truth.” 

People entered Drift’s life without warning, preamble, or invitation. Despite his best efforts they’d make a place for themselves in some corner of his worn spark. And every time, just as he’d grow used to the idea of there being someone who cared, who he could perhaps rely upon, just as the fondness grew stronger than the ache, they would leave, all at once. Through death or through circumstance, leaving Drift cursing himself for ever letting it come to this. Ratchet, it seemed, was no exception.

It didn’t hurt any less. 

“ ’s your last night here, yeah?” Drift asked.

“Most likely,” Ratchet said tiredly. “I can’t risk anyone’s safety more than I already have.” 

“You need to get on this next shuttle or you fine with catching a later one?”

Ratchet looked at him, surprised and uncertain. “I could do that.” 

“C’mon. Wanna show you somethin’.” Drift grinned. He reached out and—with a confidence he certainly didn’t feel and a trying gentleness that he’d never received outside the walls of Ratchet’s clinic or Missit and Chromantic's berth—he gripped the medic’s wrist, pulling him along. Ratchet followed easily. Drift could feel the nervousness in the medic’s field, the anticipation, and... trust. Ratchet was choosing to trust _Drift_ , knowing well it could backfire. Drift’s throat tightened, and he kept his face stubbornly turned away from Ratchet, determined to not let Ratchet see, because then there really would be nothing preventing him from becoming an emotional wreck. So he focused on leading Ratchet to that place without them running into trouble on the way.

Ratchet was leaving. But Drift could do what he couldn’t for so many others—he could give Ratchet something good to remember him by. He could say goodbye, properly. 

They wove through the alleys of the Dead End, Ratchet doing impressively well to keep up with Drift’s quick pace. He avoided the main streets, preferring tried-and-true routes of getting around without being noticed. Amid the snarl of ramshackle habs and deteriorating factory infrastructure it was impossible to tell where, exactly, one was unless they knew this place like Drift did. As they wandered deeper into the Dead End, it grew steadily darker, isolated from the ambient light cast by the neighboring districts.

“Almost there,” Drift said.

“Good. I can’t see a damn thing,” Ratchet replied.

They rounded a tight bend and were suddenly out on a street, just before the fencing of a long-abandoned construction site. Visibility was only slightly better here, away from the shadows. A rusting sign said that this was once going to be a hotel—a relic of a time before the Dead End came to be as it was now, when Rodion was still a respectable city-state. Drift didn’t know if it preceded the industrial sector it sat in the middle of, or if the unattractive location was what ended up dooming the hotel in the end. 

While the hotel may never had opened, construction had nearly completed before the endeavor was abandoned. Anything of worth had long since been looted, but the concrete building still stood soundly, inconvenience the only thing that discouraged most squatters from bothering with it. There were other places just like this one much closer to energon, syk, and mechs to rob. Places with electricity. No need to live in a black-out dark industrial sector.

“Is it stable?” Ratchet asked skeptically as he followed Drift to a metal barrel positioned next to the fence. 

“Yep. It’s standin’ fine. It just ain’t pretty.” Drift stepped up onto the barrel. With a little hop he could grasp the top of the fence and hoist himself up. Straddling the fence, he looked down at Ratchet. “You gonna need a hand doc?”

“Not if you get outta the way,” Ratchet said, clambering atop the barrel and smacking Drift’s leg lightly. 

Drift snickered and swung his leg over, dropping down the other side. Ratchet followed a klik later—if his landing was a little less graceful, Drift didn’t mention it. 

“Over here,” Drift instructed with a crook of his finger. 

An outside door led to a flight of emergency stairs that wound upwards. Drift took them two at a time. He lingered when he reached the door at the top floor of the stairwell, waiting for Ratchet to catch up.

“Are you trying to run me ragged?” Ratchet groused when he reached the landing a short while later.

“How much d’ya trust me?” Drift asked, a mischievous smile on his lips.

“What are you up to now kid?” Ratchet asked wryly.

“Turn off your optics,” Drift prompted. Ratchet gave him a skeptical look, but Drift pressed. “Please?” 

Ratchet huffed, but did as he was asked. Reaching forward, Drift gently clasped both the doctor’s famed hands and drew him forward. Shuffling backwards, Drift nudged the door open with his hip and led Ratchet across the threshold and into the abandoned hotel roof. He led them around the heap of tarps that he and Gasket had dragged up here so long ago—he tried to not think about that now—and once they were near the guard rail, with the doctor turned in the direction Drift wanted, he let Ratchet’s hands go.

“Okay,” Drift said softly, “you can look now.” 

Ratchet’s optics flickered on. He parted his lips, but not a word was uttered as he stared up in wonder. Above them, a sea of stars stretched across the entire night sky; clusters of light, hazy with swaths of nebulaic clouds and the shimmering hues of space dust.

“Oh…” Ratchet uttered, turning slowly in place to take it all in. “This is…”

Taking a seat on the tarps, Drift watched Ratchet with a smile of his own. He’d seen these stars plenty—seeing Ratchet this unworried however was something new and beautiful. 

“Worth the time?” Drift quipped.

Ratchet looked at Drift, emotion plain on his features. Drift patted the empty space beside him, and Ratchet wandered over, sitting down with an ex-vent. 

“Why’d you want to show me this, kid?” Ratchet asked, his optics to the heavens once more. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, I do. More than I can say. But I’m curious.” 

Drift looked away from Ratchet—from his gentle eyes and weary shoulders, and up at the stars—at those distant, shining bodies, far and unreachable, more visible here in the blackout-dark belly of the Dead End than anywhere else on Cybertron.

“Dunno. Just thought that… y’know, it’s your last night in the Dead End,” Drift said. “You’re never gonna be back here again. Thought that you should see the one nice thing this pit-spawn hole has to offer.”

A star streaked across the sky, a glimpse of fire and motion before it flickered out, just like that.

“Are you going to be alright?” Ratchet asked.

“Pretty presumin’ there, doc, thinkin’ I won’t be fine with the clinic gone.” It was said lightly, on the suggestion of a smirk, but there was a reminder buried there, that Drift was resilient. Drift would persevere—it’s all he was good for, in the end. “Gonna be borin’ though.”

It wasn’t as though Drift had _told_ Ratchet what it was that got him off the streets—he’d rather bite his tongue off than speak plainly of it. Drift was a gun-for-hire—his ‘work’ undermined the good doctor’s in a way so direct that it was, frankly, offensive. He didn’t want to offend Ratchet. He didn’t want to bring Ratchet down to Drift’s level. So here they were, talking around it, as though they didn’t both know. 

But Ratchet knew. There was no way he didn’t.

Following Gasket’s death, and subsequently Drift’s first kill, Ratchet’s Dead End clinic was where he’d run to. Literally. When he’d slammed through the clinic doors and hid behind one of the medical berths, Ratchet had shown up, wrench in hand, expecting an attempted burglary. Instead, he’d found Drift curled up on the floor, hyperventilating, shaking hands clutched to his chest. The medic had ignored Drift’s incoherent apologies, put a heated blanket around his shoulders, sat in front of him and cleaned the energon from Drift’s hands with a soft cloth while Drift buried his face in his knees and cried. Ratchet hadn’t asked any questions, didn’t call his Enforcer friend. He’d given Drift an energon cube, and pretended not to notice when Drift finally picked himself up from the floor, haphazardly folded up the blanket, and left it on the berth. 

Emisshot recruited Drift not a cycle later. The rest was history. 

“I find that difficult to believe. You’ll have to find somewhere else to run to if you get in trouble,” Ratchet replied, falling back into the comfortable banter they’d always resort to when things got too near intimate, too _personal_.

“More like I’m gonna need a hobby now that I’m not gettin’ your aft home safe every damn night,” Drift shot back. “There’s not more trouble ‘round than I can handle these days.”

“Uh- _huh_. And here you had me convinced otherwise,” Ratchet said.

“Trouble pays,” Drift said simply. 

“That’s worth it to you?” 

Drift made a non-commital sound. “Gotta have credits to get out of this pit.”

And, Drift guessed, that alone broke the dam that had been holding something back in the doctor, as Ratchet’s field was suddenly a static mess of frustration and disgust, strong enough that it prompted Drift to lean away as he looked at Ratchet in surprise.

“Screw the fucking senate,” Ratchet sneered, hands reaching and fingers curling as though he wanted to wring the neck of someone who wasn’t there. “Petty, selfish, greedy _sons of bitches_ , every last one of them. They should be the ones suffering, not the mechs they’ve decided are ‘unworthy’ because what? They’re not _useful_ enough? Who are they to even determine that? The Senate provides my _ass._ People aren’t tools to be used and discarded, how dare they just—“

With an angered shout, Ratchet grabbed a piece of concrete rubble that rest near his pedes and threw it, hard as he could, over the guard rail. It flew out into the night, disappearing in the darkness. 

“I feel sorry for whatever poor sod gets hit by that,” Drift commented.

“They’ll live,” Ratchet groused.

As the doctor sulked beside him, Drift considered the well-worn data slug in his subspace, containing the audio files that Megatron had recorded for him years ago, before he had disappeared. Drift had listened to it enough to be able to recite Megatron’s words by memory, enough so that he would know what he wanted to say when — _if_ — he ever saw the miner again. He didn’t need it anymore. He had the datapad. Perhaps it was time the slug was passed onto another. Perhaps Ratchet would what Drift saw in those raw, unrefined ideas that Drift had so harshly criticized.

“Ratchet, I—” he started, but just as he began to speak, Ratchet did as well.

“And those damn Decepticons aren’t helping a damn slight either! Only good that’s done is make people’s lives even harder and turn a limelight on places like this. If that Megatron’s got a brain module in right a place as his spark seems to be then he should _know better!_ He sure as hell caught the Senate’s attention—the Clinic’s been closed because of _him_.” Ratchet let out a heavy ex-vent, and ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry kid, it’s just been a day. Had a lot of distraught patients to break the news to. What were you saying?” 

Or maybe not.

“It’s nothin’. Wasn’t important,” Drift said. “You feel better now?”

Quickly as it came, Ratchet’s impassioned outrage was snuffed out, replaced by fatigue. Ratchet let his hand drop back into his lap.

“A little,” Ratchet admitted. 

“If it makes you feel any better, Missy and Chrom got out.” 

“Of the Dead End?” Ratchet asked, surprised.

“Yeah. They moved. So, y’know, figurin’ they got there safe, that’s _someone_ good who got a better lot in life.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I hope it goes well for them.” 

“Me too.” 

Ratchet leaned back on his hands, head tipped upwards. “You know, I _never_ thought I’d see the stars this way. Iacon’s observation tower doesn’t come close.”

“I used to tell Gasket that one day, when I had somethin’ to my name, I was gonna buy a ship and leave this sorry metal ball behind,” Drift said, stretching one of his hands toward the stars, fingers spread as though he could reach them if only he tried hard enough. “See what’s out there. Find somethin’ better. Away from the Dead End, the Senate, just... all of it.”

Ratchet laughed softly, an understanding, tired thing. 

“You manage to do that, and I might just have to ask you to let me come along,” Ratchet said, looking back up at the night sky.

“You could come.” Drift looked at Ratchet. “Might be a thousand of years waitin’, but you could come.”

“It’d be worth the wait.” 

And wouldn’t that be something? Other side of the galaxy, on foreign worlds so different than their own, the problems of Cybertron far behind him with Ratchet at his side.

Drift drummed his palms against the edges of his knee guards— _one-two, one-two_ —before he planted his hands on his thighs, cutting the sound short. He rocked his weight forward onto his pedes and stood.

“You’ve got a shuttle to catch, doc,” he said, offering his hands to Ratchet, palms up. 

“Too bad, I was getting comfortable. Don’t really want to move,” Ratchet replied as his hands grasped Drift’s. He let himself be dead weight for a moment as Drift struggled to pull him up, his light speedster frame failing as a counterweight against Ratchet’s fortified medic build.

“You lazy aft, _get up_ ,” Drift complained, but he was laughing. Ratchet laughed as well as he got his feet beneath him and stood, his hands still holding Drift’s.

“Thank you, Drift,” Ratchet said, honestly. 

Drift’s optics widened before he ducked his head to hide his heating faceplates. He wasn’t sure what it was about Ratchet that always feel slightly off-kilter, unable to get his feet underneath himself. Always reacting before he could stop it; a cut quick and clean, straight to the spark.

“’s nothin’,” Drift mumbled. He allowed himself one more indulgent moment before he released Ratchet’s hands, stepping away and regaining his usual wry, composed demeanor as he grinned at the mech who changed his life, who he’d undoubtedly never see again. “Let’s get you home safe.”

One last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we know what is up with Fuse; at least, what drove such a wedge between him and Drift. 
> 
> The abandoned hotel is a tribute to [Enfilade's 'Forgiven'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014305/chapters/2014169), because I read that passage where Drift talks about watching the stars with Gasket and have never stopped thinking about it. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at weapon-up-wallflower, or on twitter at @gunupwallflower


	10. Much Like Omertà

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure about this chapter, might be edited later, like always.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [At the Bottom - Brand New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p03JSRyqoY8)  
> [Murder Song (5,4,3,2,1) - AURORA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUsKK-fUPt4)

Drift told himself he’d stop attending the rallies, yet here he found himself nonetheless, standing on the sidelines in a crowded warehouse, listening to a mech he didn’t recognize read from Megatron’s samizdat writings.

_The Decepticon Manifesto: The Illusion of Progress Revisited_ it was called, Megatron’s most recent work. Rumor had it Megatron had another work in progress — an anthology of his previous writings and then some, a master collection people were calling _Towards Peace_. Neither were things Drift had managed to locate a copy of — he figured if he tried, the Senate would come down on his head for it somehow.

He still thought the entire thing was doomed from the start, but knowing that Megatron was still writing was knowing that he was still alive, and if Drift were being honest with himself, that was what kept bringing him back to these rallies. That, and the sense of responsibility that Megatron selfishly bestowed upon him by giving him that datapad.

Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to just ignore the entire ordeal, even though his self-preservation was practically screaming at him to.

“I thought you were avoiding these.”

Drift looked around, then down, to see Ravage come to sit near his feet.

“Where have you been?” Drift asked. “I haven’t seen you ‘round for a while.” 

“Here and there. What do you think?” Ravage nodded his head toward the stage, to the mech reading aloud with a grandiose flare.

“Well the delivery’s overdone,” Drift said, “but it’s sayin’ pretty much the same as what I’ve got still.”

He’d showed Ravage the datapad Megatron had given him a while ago, when Ravage had been hiding at Drift’s apartment following a run in with Pax and his subordinates. Drift could still see faint traces of the burn left by the charged snare pole around Ravage’s neck.

“That’s reassuring,” Ravage stated. 

“Heard enough,” Drift pushed off the wall. “I’m gettin’ energon. I’m below 10%, my system’s been yellin’ at me for it.”

Ravage tilted his head, following along as Drift left the warehouse. “For some reason I thought you’d have more.” 

“With how much they can charge for fuel down here? _Hah_. No. My landlord’s dead so I don’t have to worry ‘bout rent until someone _notices,_ but that doesn’t mean I’m rollin’ in the credits.” Drift glanced at Ravage. “ ‘fore you ask, I didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe he had it coming.” 

“Down here, who fuckin’ knows.” 

The warehouse district where the rally had taken place was one Drift knew to be a location whereblack market sellers occasionally set-up energon operations — usually their supply was sup-par, overpriced, limited, and likely stolen. Relative ease-of-purchase made up for at least one of those things — hunger made up for the rest. There was never a set place for these things; it’d be too easy for the enforcers to find. Due to the cartels running it, they’d immediately shut the operation down, and likely arrest the starving mechs waiting to buy fuel for good measure, to ‘discourage’ further criminal engagement. 

“Why haven’t you joined us?” Ravage asked, changing the topic abruptly.

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Drift replied, shrugging. 

Ravage picked up his pace, leaping up onto a fence so he could look Drift in the optics. “Yes, you _do_. We need you.” 

“Megatron wanted a peaceful insurrection,” Drift countered. His pace slowed to a halt. “You don’t need me.”

“You spent the better part of a deca-cycle showing him why that was _stupid_ , _”_ Ravage spat. “You wanted to know what happened with my neck? Pax’s enforcers beat the shit out of me because of some _graffiti._ We don’t know what we're doing out here. So w hat is it? Are you _scared_?”

Drift scoffed. “No,” he answered honestly. 

Not for himself, no.

“Then _what?_ ”

“There’s a difference between needin’ the guy who knows how to throw a punch, an’ needin’ the guy who makes money by shootin’ a mech between the optics.” Driftstarted walking again, Ravage keeping pace beside. “I’m on the Senate’s radar — _you’re_ the one who let me know that. What kind of message do you think it’s gonna send if I throw my lot in with the Decepticons _now_? I might think change without violence isn’t possible, but that don’t mean I want it to be worse than it has to be.”

Ravage didn’t seem satisfied with that answer.

“There’s still people down here who could be hurt if I did,” Drift added.

“There it is,” Ravage said, as though that was what he’d been waiting for. Reaching the end of the fence, he leapt back down onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, _excuse me._ If you’ve got me pinned an’ figured out that you know what I’m gonna say, why bother me?” Drift said sarcastically, irritated now. 

“Because you care.”

Drift leveled him with a look, then shook head with a sigh.

“Carin’ never got no one nowhere,” he said.

He knew he found what he was looking for when he came across a line of disheveled mechs leading in to the side-door of a warehouse that was flanked by large-framed mechs with guns. He gave the security a once-over as they joined the line, and wondered if the bulky mechs were actually worth their weight with a gun or if it was an empty threat.

The armed mech gave Drift a glare that he returned. 

“Don’t get why you don’t go to the _actual_ dispensary,” Ravage commented. “You’ve got an ‘acceptable’ alt.”

“No papers,” Drift supplied. “Drift of Dead End doesn’t exist, ‘ccordin’ to the people who call the shots. So, no dispensary.”

“Too bad. That stuff’s better than this.”

The warehouse door opened, and a mech was bodily thrown out, hitting the ground hard enough to roll. 

“It's better than siphonin’, so I’m not complainin’,” Drift said, frowning as he watched the mech picked himself up off the concrete and limped away. 

“Fair,” Ravage said. “I suppose rotting your fuel lines is the worst you’ll get from this.”

They reached the front of the short line. The hired security mech who’d been glaring in their direction immediately swung a kick at Ravage, who leapt out of the way with ease. Drift immediately bristled.

“”Hey! The fuck is your problem?!” he snapped.

“No animals in the dispensary,” the guard said. 

“He’s not an _animal_ you—”

“Don’t bother,” Ravage interrupted. “It’s not worth picking the fight over.”

Drift frowned at him.

“It’s not going to change,” Ravage stated.

“Hold up,” he told Ravage, then turned on the security mech, glaring as he stepped past into the interior of the ‘dispensary’.

The mech overseeing sales stood beside stacked pallets of packaged energon — whether they were outdated shipments or outright stolen, Drift couldn’t tell. Both, probably. He counted at least five guns in the short time it took him to buy two packets off the mech — with a smaller seller, he’d bother haggling, but with that many weapons paired with the look in this seller’s eye, he decided to cut his losses in favor of subspacing the energon and getting out quickly. 

Ravage was still there when Drift exited, lurking in the shadows on the sidelines. He could tell neither the security mech nor the other people in line knew he was there — Drift himself was only able to catch sight of him because he’d steadily grown familiar with what to look for.

They left the distribution site in favor of streets Drift knew better, eventually settling down beside the abandoned tram tracks, perched on a low wall that protected what pedestrians there may have once been. Drift noticed the tinposies sticking up in between the tracks, the little metal flowers defiant of the metal and concrete that embedded them.

“Here,” he said, handing Ravage the second energon packet.

“I can’t pay you back,” Ravage said, warily. 

“Then don’t,” Drift replied, picking at the seal to the packet he held. “You get that every time?”

“Pretty much. For the most part I have to convince others to get energon for me—I have people I trust. It could be worse,” Ravage said.

It _had_ been worse once, Drift could tell, but he knew better than to ask. He dumped half the contents of his own packet down his throat, swallowing quickly to ignore the revolting texture. He still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t just expired energon repackaged and sold to those who would tolerate the low quality for the low price. 

“I hate this fuckin’ town,” Drift muttered, grimacing at the disgusting cloy of the energon’s aftertaste in his mouth.

“Home sweet home,” Ravage replied, tone heavy with sarcasm as he subspaced the energon packet, presumably for later.

Drift glanced at him. “I thought you were from Stanix.”

“I _say_ I’m from Stanix. Doesn’t mean I am.”

Drift huffed a laugh. “Seriously, _you’re_ from _here_? Could’a fooled me, you talk like a topsider. I think there’s only one time I’ve heard you slip into Dead-Ender.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Ravage protested, seeming genuinely offended.

“How long did it take you to get the brogue outta your mouth?” Drift asked.

“A while and a lot of effort. Hanging out with you has been a bad influence, I keep slipping back into it.”

“I’m a bad influence? _Aww_ that’s sweet.” Hand on his chest, Drift pretended to be touched.

“You’re obnoxious,” Ravage deadpanned. “Eat your shitty energon.” 

Drift stuck his tongue out at Ravage, who replied by lightly hitting Drift’s cheek with his tail. 

The more Drift thought about it, it made sense; Ravage being a native to the Dead End explained plenty. He certainly didn’t think that a gutter-tourist would have been able to sneak up on him successfully as Ravage had… more than once. Gutter-slummers couldn’t have pulled that off, no matter how harsh the towns they came from were.

“Megatron is a gladiator now,” Ravage stated as Drift was in the midst of tossing back the rest of his fuel. Drift choked.

He did his best to glare at Ravage as he sputtered and coughed. Ravage just watched, bemused. Swallowing thickly, Drift grimaced.

“You didn’t think it was important to tell me this earlier?” he growled, voice hoarse from the energon caught in his intake. 

“I was preoccupied, if you forgot,” Ravage said primly.

“How do you even know—” Drift trailed off as Ravage reached into his subspace and retrieved a small disk. He handed it to Drift, who turned it over, his face reflected in the unmarked gold surface. “What’s this?”

“Proof,” Ravage said. “Also extremely illegal. Put it away before anyone sees you.” 

Drift subspaced it without having to be told twice. “How ‘bout warnin’ before you spring contraband on me, yeah?” he hissed.

“You wanted to know, and I had to give it to you now. I just got a heads-up — there’s no Enforcers here yet, but they’re coming this way.”

He saw movement in the corner of his optic, and looked up, to see the shadow of a small mech fly over them. “Tell me that’s one of your friends.”

“That’s Laserbeak. Do me a favor and don’t shoot him.”

“I take it that’s someone you trust,” Drift said, hand pulling away from the plating that covered where he kept his gun hidden.

“Him and Buzzsaw. We’ve known each other for a while now.” Ravage stood, stretching. “We should split, but I’ll introduce you when things are less chaotic. Thanks for the fuel.”

“Careful on your way back, they’ve got plain-plate cops crawlin’ all over the Dead End nowadays.” Drift hopped off his perch on the low wall. “I’ll see you ‘round.”

“Drift,” Ravage called, stopping Drift in his tracks. “If it comes to the point that the Decepticons need a gunner on our side, then what will you do?”

Drift looked down the street, past Ravage, toward the warehouse district where they’d just come from the Decepticon rally. 

“If it comes to that… then you know where to find me,” he answered, and he left.

* * *

Drift watched the contents of the disk immediately after returning home. It contained a single, long video file; a recording of a gladiatorial pit fight, a five-mech free-for-all. An armored minibot had been knocked out of the competition almost immediately, thrown against a wall by a green-plated earth-mover. Spectators in the sidelines screamed their lust for bloodshed for all to hear. It was disgusting.

Drift didn’t recognize him at first; it was only as he’d ripped off his opponent’s arm, sending curdling pink splattering across the camera lens, that Drift realized the broad silver mech with the red helm paint was _Megatron_. 

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, knuckles to his lips, and watched with a sinking horror. 

Megatron moved with a brutal ease, sundering the other fighters as though he’d been built for war. Three down — in the last opponent standing, it seemed as though Megatron had met his match. 

“What have they done to you,” Drift muttered. 

Then a well-timed strike, Megatron punched the mech’s face in, plating buckling beneath his knuckles. Perfect form. Just like Drift had showed him. 

The file’s sound filled with static as the audience cheered too loud for the cheap recording equipment to handle; Megatron strode around the pit, arms spread in victory, plating smattered with gore, the mech’s arm he’d torn off still in hand.

Drift felt something wet on his hand. He pulled it away to see optical fluid on his fingers. Gritting his teeth, he wiped the rest of it away.

This was nothing they hadn’t seen before—the destruction the harshness of life wrought upon a mech, how it changed them, how it killed them, leaving something behind that survived but would never be the same. Mourn the loss, nod to the struggle, celebrate the survival. Drift wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much this time. 

There was a soft knock at his door, the chains on the locks clinking.

He stilled, shutting off the datapad instantly, the video cutting quiet. He waited, unmoving, trying to listen for any other sounds, the murmur of voices that could tell him who to expect. When none came, he cautiously placed the datapad aside and grabbed his gun.

If that disk had somehow been traced and he opened the door to either enforcers or the Senate’s mercs, Drift swore to himself that he was going to escape and track Ravage down _solely_ to kick his ass. 

He checked to ensure his gun was loaded, then cracked open the door.

It wasn’t the cops, or any mercenaries. It was Fuse; a very, very sick Fuse. He _looked_ fragile, his plating dull and brittle in the rapidly flickering light of the hallway, cracked and breaking at the seams. He was slumped, as though holding himself up on the doorframe was all that kept him standing, his vents rattling. Fuse gave him a weak smile, teeth laced pink. Only internalized energon stained like that. 

“Sorry,” Fuse said.

Then he collapsed to the floor. 

“No, no _no no_ —” Drift closed his door, gun tossed aside, his fingers fumbling to undo the chain lock and throw it open fully. He fell to his knees and gathered Fuse’s crumpled form into his arms. “Fuse? Fuse, what's happenin'? Stay with me.”

Fuse’s optics on-lined dimly. He was too warm to the touch. 

“Sorry,” Fuse repeated softly. “I know… you don’ like bein’ bothered. ‘m sorry…” 

“ _Shh_ its okay _._ It’s okay. We’re gonna to get you help.” He looked around, trying to think of the best way to transport Fuse without making things worse. He just needed to get Fuse to the clinic. Ratchet would help him. “It’s gonna be alright Fuse. You’re gonna be—” Drift’s optics widened and his fuel pump dropped. 

The Dead End clinic was closed. He’d forgotten. 

Fuse’s hand shook as he lifted his arm, reaching. Drift gripped his hand tightly. 

“…n’t wanna be alone,” Fuse mumbled, almost too quiet for Drift to hear. “There were cops ‘round and I ran and I… I d-don’t wanna die alone in a cell…”

“I’m here.”

“Drift?” Fuse’s optics on-lined again, flickering. 

Drift shifted so Fuse could see his face. “It’s me, Fuse. I have you.”

“I’m scared,” Fuse whispered brokenly. “I’m so scared.” 

“I have you.” Drift kissed the side of Fuse’s helm, rocking him gently as he curled around him. “I have you, sweetspark.”

Fuse sobbed.

"It's gonna be okay," Drift said, because that's all he could do.

“I h-hate the waitin’,” Fuse croaked. “I can _feel_ it…”

Drift stroked Fuse’s cheek, grasping for something, anything, that could help take Fuse’s mind off of his own slow death. “Hey, do you remember the song Gasket used to sing, Fuse? Do you remember the words?”

“ _Mmhmm_.” 

“I can’t remember the words,” Drift lied. “I keep tryin’ but I can’t remember them. Could you sing them for me sweetspark?”

“Y-yeah, um…” Fuse’s voice was shaking. He reset his vocalizer, and began to sing, barely holding the tune. “ _M-my dear love… won’t you let it go, Our shift’s not for an hour or so… Rest y-your h-head, and we’ll l-lie low_ … _”_

Drift joined the song on the next line. He had never been one for singing — his voice was too raspy for it. Not that it mattered now.

_“From the dust, tinposies will grow,_

_From the dust, tinposies will grow.”_

Fuse’s voice trailed off. He tucked his face into the side of Drift’s neck. Lowly, Drift continued to sing:

_“Our work isn’t over, don’t you know_

_There isn’t much life to these seeds we sow_

_Rest your head, ignore the gunfire below_

_From the dust, tinposies will grow,_

_From the dust, tinposies will grow._

_So reap the deadened row by row_

_A chorale sung from the gallows_

_Our bodies feed their need to loathe;_

_From our dust, tinposies will grow,_

_From our dust, tinposies will grow.”_

Fuse died before the song ended — Drift knew the moment he passed, when the flickering of the hallway light abruptly stopped, the electricity buzzing, casting them in a steady soft yellow glow. It took Drift longer to gather the will to loosen his embrace and accept it.

A few of the others who lived in the building had gathered out of curiosity at the commotion. They’d stayed for another reason entirely. Drift could feel the weight of their optics as they lingered on Fuse’s cooling frame, starving for the energon in it. Uncaring for the once-living mech that housed it. Why would they? He was dead. He didn’t need the energon. They did.

Drift shifted away from Fuse’s body, laying him on the floor gently. One of the onlookers shuffled closer. Drift stood.

“Not here,” he said. “Just not here.” 

The mechs nodded, sympathy and guilt peeking out from underneath the hunger. Drift stepped back into his room and locked himself in. He slid to the floor and pulled his knees against his chest, pressing his face to them. 

It wasn’t long after he’d started working as a streetmech that Missit had sat him down and gave him the advice that kept him alive in the Dead End after all this time. He’d been a mess — aching, hurt in ways that had nothing to do with his frame. At the time, Missit had only ever exchanged a passing word with him. But that night, Missit had taken a single look at him—little more than a stranger—led him to sit on an abandoned stoop, and gathered him close. 

_You can only have so many,_ Missit had told him; only so many people who you can let in, with who you can share the part of yourself that had nothing to do with the frame you’re selling, with who you could be vulnerable, could be _honest_. Only so many, because you could only stand to lose so many.

“ _Your heart can only break so many times,_ ” Missit had said, “ _‘fore it stays broken. Then you’re really dead, even if your frame don’t realize it yet._ ”

Drift wondered if he wasn’t coming close to that vague, undefinable boundary Missit had warned him of. He wondered if he’d been too careless, if he hadn’t already grown too close to too many people; if he wasn’t simply living on borrowed time, waiting until the next spark snuffed out and took his with it.

After a long moment he sought out the piled tarps he slept on. Wrapping one around himself, he curled up in the corner of the room, back to the wall. A sob welled in his throat, choking. A whimper caught in his chest, the pressure of it growing until it emerged a throat-tearing scream, a sound nearly more seething, desperate rage than grief. Even though Drift couldn’t say precisely what it was that dragged Fuse under, he knew it was neglect that killed him. 

_What will the Dead End fuel on?_

Itself. 

No one else cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I knew without the levity Missit and Chromantic gave to this story that it was going to get rough, but whew.  
> "Lullaby for the Dead End [Tinposies]" is an original folk song I wrote for this fic!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at weapon-up-wallflower or on twitter @gunupwallflower


	11. Constitution in Twelves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a double update! Be sure to read chapter 12 as well~!
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [Horizons into Battlefields - Woodkid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzIuh5M0vvo)  
> [Dangerous - Son Lux](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKRDTUwdVWg)

Drift went back to the clinic.

Out of curiosity, or bitter nostalgia, he wasn’t certain. Maybe he just needed something to do that wasn’t sitting alone in his apartment. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be in the Den. He didn’t want to go to the brothel, now that Missit and Chromantic were gone. The other streetmechs were nice enough, and Drift was familiar enough, but they were no one he _knew._

The clinic’s door was slightly ajar. Broken glass crunched beneath his pedes as he stepped forward and grasped the handle, easing the door open. The faded ambient light from the street filtered across the threshold, illuminating the ruined interior of the once-pristine clinic, catching on the dust-motes that hung, floating softly in the stale air. Drift tried the light switch— _one-two, one-two_ — only for the room to remain dark. 

Drift carefully stepped inside, taking in the damage as he slowly walked through. He trailed his fingers across the surface of one of the medberths as he rounded it, taking note of the lines in the dust they left behind. No one had been here for a while. Most of the medical machinery was gone, scrap pieces left on the floor suggesting it had been deconstructed for parts on-site. The clinic must have been ransacked quickly after Ratchet’s departure; what was once the warm, sterile atmosphere Drift had associated so much with _safety_ had been replaced by the same grief and neglect that plagued the Dead End like an infection. It had taken no time to spread here when there was no one left to fend it off. 

Nothing was sacred.

The back room was no better; the cabinet where Drift had helped Ratchet sort medipackets broken open, contents long lost. Drift wondered if Ratchet had taken the medicine with him, or if it had fallen into the hands of someone who needed it instead of some mech looking for a high. He hoped it had been put to good use, even as the pessimistic side of him knew it was unlikely.

Returning to the clinic’s main room, Drift sat on the medberth he’d disturbed before and lit a cyg. The smoke curled as Drift exhaled. 

Drift had known that the closing of the clinic would be the last that he would ever see of Ratchet. The doctor had no reason to return to the Dead End, and presumably no want to, given anyone with a sliver of self-preservation knew better than to slum it in the gutters. No, Ratchet would never be coming back.

Drift had told Ratchet, on his last night in the Dead End, that he wasn’t angry that Ratchet was shutting down his clinic. He wasn’t angry — he was enraged, in the moments between the narcotic-numbness he embraced with increasing frequency, that flowed sweetly in his lines right now, making it easier to ignore the way he shivered. If Ratchet hadn’t had to close the clinic, Fuse may still be alive, and Drift might’ve not lost the last person who gave a shit about him.

He thought about Ratchet’s hands — strong and scuffed. Gentle. 

Drift wanted to be held. There was no one left he could trust with that. The drugs made him feel warm inside, but it was a shitty substitute. He missed Missit and Chromantic. 

Out of the corner of his optic, he saw a shadow pass beneath the streetlight; some poor leaker looking for help, no doubt.

“You're all outta luck,” Drift muttered. “Doc ain’t ‘round no more—”

“RODION POLICE! PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!” 

Drift startled, instinctively jerking as though to run before he reeled himself back and threw his hands in the air.

_Shit._

He squinted in the blinding headlights that shone through the door, optics rapidly cycling as they tried to adjust to the change in lighting. 

The light dimmed, and Drift’s optics adjusted, revealing Orion Pax standing in the doorway, gun drawn. Pax kept his gun aimed at Drift as he stepped inside the clinic, taking in the ruined interior with the flashlight in his free hand, crossed beneath the wrist of his gun hand. 

“I would have arrested you the first time had I known this was how you were going to repay him,” Pax said, accusatory ,grimacing at a petro-rat that scrabbled across the cheap floor tiling.

Drift balked. “You think _I_ did this?”

_Of course he did._

“You have a record,” Pax stated.

_Of_ course _he did._

“Gonna wanna check your theory, _Pax_.” He spat the name like an expletive. “This joint’s been sacked for ages.” Drift kicked the side of the medberth with a heel, sending clouds of dust floating lazily in the stale air—his point made.

“This is still a private establishment,” Pax said. “You’re trespassing.”

“Didn’t know reminiscin’ counted as trespassin’. ‘sides, if anyone owns this joint, it’s Ratchet, an’ he made it _clear_ I was welcome here. I don’t give a shit if you don’t like it.” 

“I’m searching you,” Pax announced. “If you’re telling the truth, you’ll co-operate.”

Drift rolled his optics. He slid off the berth, hands still in the air, cyg still clenched between his teeth. He inhaled at the first touch of Pax’s hands on his frame, willing his pounding fuel pump to not give away the sick feeling that flooded his system.

He told himself he wasn’t scared.

“Subspace,” Pax ordered.

Drift’s hands clenched into fists as he opened the panel access to his subspace compartments; two in the outer sides of his thighs and one in his waist. It was dumb luck that in a bout of feeling particularly self-destructive, Drift had shot up the rest of the rest of the drugs he had on him and left his guns locked up in his flat. 

It didn’t mean Pax wouldn’t find ‘evidence’ to incriminate him — or fabricate something. 

Drift kept his optics on the far wall, fists clenched tight enough for his claws to scrape the plating of his palms as he felt Orion Pax’s hands in his subspace, internals roiling in disgust as he forced himself to resist the urge to slug Pax to get his hands _off of him._

“What is this?” Pax demanded.

Drift looked down, to see Pax holding up the data slug that Megatron had said. He wetted his lips. “Recordin’s. Poetry an’ stuff,” he said faintly.

Pax inspected both sides of it, and for a moment Drift thought he might drop the matter — Pax had been harassing the Dead End for long enough to know that plugging unknown chips into your system to see check their contents got you a load of malware in this town. Then, Pax unhooked a handheld chip reader from his hip and plugged it in. Drift had to srurpress a groan. Even when he wasn’t around, Megatron managed to cause Drift trouble.

“Poetry,” Pax repeated, optics scanning the text readout as the machine converted the audio, drawing the voice match a database and displaying it on an overlay. 

“An’ stuff,” Drift muttered.

“You didn’t mention who the author happened to be.” 

“Weren’t you the guy who barged into the Senate an’ quoted his writin’s at ‘em? Lookin’ like a hypocrite from where I’m standin’, Pax.” 

“That’s before he became the head of a terrorist organization.” 

“They ain’t _terrorists_. They don’t even know what they’re doin’ out there.”

Pax scowled. “You’re familiar with ‘them’.” 

Drift grimaced as what the enforcer was alluding to hit him. “‘m not a ‘con.”

A moment of quiet passed between them, Pax focused on the readout on that little green screen.He didn’t see as Drift sucked hard on his cyg, the end flaring bright with heat. 

Drift knew what was coming next. He wasn’t going to make it easy.

“You’re under arrest for trespassing and destruction of property,” Orion stated decisively, reaching for his stasis cuffs. "You have the right to remain _—_

Drift spat his cyg out. It hit Orion’s cheek with a burning _hssssss,_ just below the optic _._ The enforcer flinched back with a surprised sound of pain, and Drift bolted. He ran into the back room. Jumping, he grasped a pipe that ran alongside the ceiling, using his momentum to swing through the small window set high in the wall. Glass shattered. His finial clipped the concrete window ledge as he fell to the street, sending a painful burst of static through his sensornet. Growling, he shook it off, and ran. 

His feet pounded on the pavement as he sprinted, fuel-pump throbbing in his frame as his engine burned through his sparse energon reserves. He could hear the screech of tires on the asphalt, roaring engines growing closer as the enforcers pursued. Pax hadn’t been alone.

Drift had been to jail before. The first time, he’d let a mech frag him on the cheap—charged less than he normally would, overdue for his next fix and shaking with the need for it. Instead of hocking up the measly handful of credits Drift charged, the mech turned around and revealed himself to be an undercover cop, who arrested him and threw him in holding. He remembered laying on the concrete floor of the holding cell in his own sick, his system having purged what little was in it as punishment for not getting the drugs it craved; remembered the way one of the enforcers looked on uncomfortably, only to be hustled away by another who’d laughed at Drift and told the newcomer that he’d learn. Drift had listened to Gasket plead with the enforcers for hours before they released Drift — he never asked Gasket what he’d said or done to get Drift out. The shakes from his brief withdrawal had stayed with him for weeks. The second time, it had been Missit who’d gotten him out.

This time, Drift knew he’d die in that cell. Pax would see to it.

In desperation, Drift transformed, tires squealing as he gunned it down the street. Launching himself over a divider, he landed in the sluice. He followed the concrete canal into the pitch-black underground sewer maintenance tunnels, long since bone-dry following the utilities to this sector having been cut, weaving through the twisting labyrinth as he delved deeper. 

Drift didn’t have biolights. His optics had a low-light function, he supposed to make up for it. He was thankful for the lack of lights as he cut his engine and transformed, hiding in a side tunnel. Shutting his optics, he forced his systems to quiet as he focused his attention to the sensory input his finials gathered in a constant over-stimulation dump. 

The enforcers weren’t far, but they had stalled. He caught the vibrations of conversation for a few moments before the sound of engines rang through the tunnels and faded away. 

Drift didn’t dare move for a long moment, venting quietly in the darkness, until he was certain he was alone. When he finally moved, it took effort, his engine painfully turning over as it protested his now-critically-low energon levels. He felt weak, unsteady on his feet. 

He had fuel hidden in his flat. He just needed to get there. 

The entire trip back to his apartment passed in a haze. Drift wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to get home, or how far he’d gotten on his own — when the lightheadedness subsided, he found himself being held up by another mech, someone he vaguely recognized. He likewise vaguely recognized the tacky wallcovering of his housing’s hallways, peeling and yellowed. 

The stranger-not-stranger dragged him to his unit’s door. Drift got his feet underneath him, holding onto the doorframe for balance, then looked at the mech who’d helped him — his neighbor, though Drift couldn’t recall his name for the life of him.

“Thank you,” he croaked.

“Yeah,” the mech replied. He loitered for a moment longer to make sure Drift wasn’t going to fall over or pass out again before he left. 

Drift waited until he heard the other mech’s door lock before he opened his own. 


	12. I'll Keep You Carved Inside My Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a double-update! Make sure to read chapter 11 if you haven't already! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please leave a comment saying why! I'd love to hear it.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> [Muddy Waters - LP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_LsabYHxuM)  
> [A Rush of Blood to the Head - Coldplay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AiebvAkb4LM)

They were playing footage of Megatron’s gladiatorial fights at the Den.

It was a different fight than the one held on the vid-disk Ravage had given him — a one-on-one match, where Megatron’s opponent was more evenly matched with him. He hadn’t intended on buying the overpriced engex that Oilslick sold, but the moment he registered what was on the viewing screen, he went straight to the counter and told Oilslick to give him something strong. With what he'd injected the night before, he vaguely knew that the drugs paired with engex was something he was going to regret later. He couldn’t find it in himself to care, taking whatever distance he could find in the bottom of a bottle as he brought it to his lips. 

Drift didn’t want to watch the fight, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, every hit Megatron took making Drift’s fuel pump lurch in anxiety.

Megatron took a blow to the gut.

Drift took a drink from the bottle.

“Look who it is!” Axel jeered from his seat in the booth, voice grating enough for Drift to notice he was speaking. “The high-and-mighty Drift has deemed to grace us with his presence for once!”

“If you don’t have any drugs to sell me, then shut it kid,” Drift shot back without looking away from the screen, taking another drink as he followed the battle closely.

Axel made a strangled sound, and now Drift glanced over, to find the small mech being grappled by Emisshot, who’d placed a broad hand over Axel’s mouth. Drift nodded. Emisshot tilted his head, acknowledging, as he dragged Axel off to plant him somewhere he couldn’t heckle Drift out of boredom.

It didn’t matter — the damage was already done. Drift’s presence at the Den had been called out, and it took only a handful of kliks before the exact person he’d been seeking to avoid occupied the bar seat beside his.

“So, the miner learned how to fight,” Killgauge said, bitter as he gestured to the screen. He wasn’t looking at the recording, however—he was watching Drift, closely. 

Drift didn’t respond, swirling his engex in the bottle as he watched Megatron dislocate his opponent’s shoulder. His grip tightened on the glass, sending a hairline fracture skittering up the side of the bottle.

“That’s your doing, you know,” Killgauge stated. “He’s untouchable, now. You must be pleased with yourself. You brought this outta him—from gentle poet, to…” 

On the screen, Megatron stomped on the mech’s knee. It turned the wrong way, struts popping. Drift could almost hear the sound. Killgauge chuckled.

“Figured out how you’re gonna pay me back for losin’ that bounty,” Killgauge said.

“Shut your mouth,” Drift warned, low.

“Easy, sweets, you don’t even gotta do anythin’ for me. See, I figure Senate would pay a pretty reward to know that their _head doctor_ operated a clinic in the Dead End.” He leaned in, a malicious grin splitting his lips. “Curious what they’ll do to your precious doc when I tell ‘em. Empurata’s gonna be the _least_ of his concer—”

Drift flipped the bottle in his hand and swung with the full force of his body. It shattered as it broke across Killgauge’s face, energon spraying across the floor of the Den. Killgauge reeled, swearing. He rounded on Drift, making to grab at him. Drift avoided Killgauge’s hands, slipping off of the bar chair and vaulting the table behind him. He turned, planted his foot on the table edge, and shoved, sending the table and nearby chairs clattering to the floor in Killgauge’s direction. 

Killgauge stumbled for only a moment before he swept them out of his way. He swung, catching Drift in the jaw hard. Drift turned into the fall, took his weight on his hands and got his feet back under him. He vaguely heard Axel telling someone to _get out, he threatened the doc, there’s no stoppin’—_

Killgauge tilted his head side-to-side, working the kinks out of his neck cabling. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, _sweetspark,_ ” he sneered.

_ Fine. _

Drift unholstered his gun and fired.

Killgauge threw himself to the side — Drift’s shot nicked the side of his cheek, energon welling in the cut. Killgauge’s demeanor changed completely as the situation caught up to him, his cocky smile turning into an enraged snarl, teeth bared. His frame-bound guns onlining was the only warning Drift got. He ducked behind the bar just as the heat of Killgauge’s shot seared the air where he’d just been standing. The engex bottles on the upper shelves exploded in a shower of glass and pink fluid, the bartop splintering into thousands of tiny shards. 

“Come on out shareware,” Killgauge called. “I’ve been _lookin’ forward_ to this!”

Drift lifted his head, glass tinkling as it fell from his shoulders and helm. He grit his teeth as he looked up at the hole in the wall that Killgauge’s weaponry left. 

_Where in the Pit had he gotten that kind of firepower?_

Drift noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and had to forcefully surpress himself from flinching. Turning towards it, he saw Killgauge’s form was reflected in the intact curve of a broken engex flask; the glass warped his shape as he paced, back-and-forth, like he thought himself a predator toying with cornered prey. 

Drift watched Killgauge’s gait, taking in the distance he paced before turning back once more. Holding his gun out as a straight edge, Drift took in the angle of the broken bottle, drawing a line from it to the wall, then tilting his head back, listening to Killgauge’s heavy footsteps as he calculated a trajectory and front-loaded his following movement-set.

He had one shot at this. 

“I still gotta repay you for your little stunt, takin’ out my optic,” Killgauge said. Drift heard his weapons humming as they charged once more. “I’ll be slow and gentle-like. I won’t lie—it’s gonna hurt real good.”

Drift pushed to his feet, pointed his gun where the short-run program executed his arm to aim, and pulled the trigger.

The shot embedded itself in the dead center of Killgauge’s throat. 

His vocalizer glitched as energon welled and curdled in the wound. Killgauge curled in on himself and grabbed at his neck. 

Drift launched himself over the ruined bar and threw himself at Killgauge, tackling him to the floor. Killgauge’s head thunked against the ground, mouth opened in pain. He made to grit his teeth, only to find he couldn’t. 

Killgauge’s optic widened and he stilled, jaw flexing as his teeth dug into the gun barrel shoved in his mouth. Pleasure curled in Drift’s spark, a sickly sweetness that had nothing to do with the drugs running through his system.

“I told you.” Drift repeated, slowly, each word carefully enunciated around a sneer that threatened to become a grin at the corners of his mouth. “To shut. Your. Mouth.” 

Drift dug his thumb into the open wound of Killgauge’s neck. He flinched and whimpered.

“Betcha wish you’d listened now,” Drift whispered.

**Bang.**

Emisshot, Oilslick, Sweetalker, and Axel were lurking nearby on the street when Drift let the door of the Den shut behind him. They looked at him, curious.

“Tell Rook I quit,” Drift said, “and that the hole in the wall was Killgauge’s doin’.”

Swaying slightly, he stumbled his way down the street, ignoring the heavy gaze of their optics that weighed on his back until he was out of sight.

Ravage was sitting outside his apartment building when he got there. Drift had activated his FIM chip after purging in a gutter. He wasn’t sober, but he’d at least gotten that out of his system. Ravage looked him over—his scuffed, rattling, energon stained-plating and angry optics—and tilted his head, field concerned.

“Lemme grab my shit,” Drift mumbled, walking by and jimmying the weak lock to the building’s entrance, too worn out to bother finding his keys.

He wandered through the dingy halls of the complex, taking in the stained tiling and cracked walls for what would be the final time. He didn’t think he would miss it—not _really_ , but it had been the first time he’d had a reliable, solid roof over his head. Upon reaching his hallway, his eyes landed on the threshold of his flat. He felt cold. The hallway light shone without a flicker.

No, he wouldn’t miss it. 

The Tarnish Delights tin with the ticket to Carpressa inside and Megatron’s datapad were all Drift retrieved from the locked cabinet—nothing else in his flat was worth saving. He had his guns on hand; hadn’t put them back since his run-in with Pax.

Leaving the door to his flat ajar, he rapped his knuckles on the door to the neighboring apartment. No one answered, but he could hear the shuffling of uncertain pedes by the door. Stepping back so he could see Drift through the peephole, he jerked a thumb in the direction of his apartment. 

“I’m gettin’ lost,” he said. “Anythin’ you or anyone else wants in there’s free for the takin’. Door’s unlocked.” 

Drift heard the door creak open as he turned to leave.

“W-wait,” his neighbor said. “I have something of yours.” 

Drift frowned, but waited, watching as the mech disappeared into the shadows beyond the cracked door. The mech returned after a moment, a box tucked beneath his arm. He held it out, sheepish.

“This is mine?” Drift reiterated.

“Yeah. From your friend. The one who…” his neighbor glanced a the threshold to Drift’s apartment. “He, uh, left it by your door a while back when you weren’t ‘round.”

“And you took it.”

The mech held his hands up, apologetic under the force of Drift’s glare. “Hey, I’m sorry. Honestly. I was gonna sell ‘em for energon, but then that happened, and I decided that’d be pretty fucked up even for me. So I was gonna give them back, but you weren’t ‘round, then when you were ‘round you were in a real bad way, an’ I was thinkin’ you’d use ‘em on yourself, an’ I didn’t want to deal with that on my conscience. So I’m givin’ them to you now.” 

_Use them?_

Drift flipped open the box, revealing two fine, silvery pistols nestled in its depths. Resetting his optics, Drift lifted one, looking it over, testing the weight in his hand. These were _nice_ guns, fancy in appearance and impeccably made, every piece fitting together snugly. How Fuse had gotten his hands on these, Drift had no idea. How he’d _afforded_ them. There was little chance he could have stolen weapons these nice.

It left him feeling as though Fuse might’ve known what was coming. 

He looked up at his neighbor, who was trying to pretend he wasn’t nervous about the weapon in Drift’s hand. Drift subspaced the pistols, leaving the box on the floor. 

“I’ve had a gun on me this entire time,” Drift told him, turning away. “If I wanted to off you or myself I would’ve done it.”

“That’s reassuring,” the mech said, completely not reassured. Drift paused, then looked back at the mech. 

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“…Hitch. Of Petrex.”

“Hitch,” Drift repeated, with a nod. “Thanks for not sellin’ these. Don’t worry ‘bout me holdin’ a grudge — shit’s hard. I get it. It’s too bad you ended up here.” 

Hitch shrugged. “Petrex isn’t all that,” he joked weakly. 

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind if I go to Petrex. Have fun scroungin’ through my flat.” 

“Right. Uh, good luck wherever you're goin’, drifter.”

“Not gonna need luck’.” Drift waved a finger-gun over his shoulder as he walked off.

* * *

“Since when was this thing in service?” Drift asked, looking around the interior from where he was slouched in the seat that hugged the back corner of the tram car.

“We fixed it,” Ravage commented from where he was perched on the seat across from Drift, swaying with the jerking tram that was taking them from the Petrex-border of the Dead End to the Iacon-border. “Some construction workers joined, so Megatron had them work on it when we got back in town. He wanted to give back to the Dead End, and make it easier for people to come attend the big rally if they wanted.”

“That where we headin’?”

“Where else?” 

“How long _have_ you been back in town?”

“Few days.”

“Huh.” Drift nodded, slowly. “Your guys work fast.”

“The infrastructure was still functional, from what I understand. It was a matter of rerouting power to it,” Ravage said flippantly, clearly not very interested in the intricacies of the operation. He leveled Drift with a look. “For the record, you look like shit.”

“I wasn’t aware.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” Drift swallowed thickly. “Killed a guy who had it comin’.”

“Good,” Ravage said emphatically. He hopped across the aisle, landing beside Drift. Settling down, he laid his head on Drift’s leg.

Drift rested his hand on Ravage’s back, feeling the faint welded remains of the burn scar beneath his palm.

“Ravage?”

“ _Mmh?_ ”

“Thank you.”

* * *

They could hear the muffled sound of Megatron’s voice through the closed warehouse door when they arrived. He was in the midst of a speech, surrounded by strangers Drift didn’t recognize as individuals but could immediately pin as local to the Dead End, albiet with more hope in their optics and standing a slight bit straighter than they usually would. Megatron wasn’t alone on the makeshift stage from where he spoke — a handful of mechs stood behind him, a supporting presence to bolster his words.

As if he needed it. The miner was the same charismatic speaker that Drift remembered him to be. The tone was different, however — where Drift remembered Megatron’s readings to be an intimate thing, quietly impassioned and deeply personal, Megatron now spoke with the brash confidence of a mech who’d looked death in the optic and walked away more than once as he outlined the inherent flaws of Functionism and its hypocrisy — a parallel to the conversation he’d hosted in a warehouse so much like this one, so long ago. It still caused a pang in Drift’s spark. He suspected that would never go away.

“Soundwave calls this his ‘crowd-pleaser’ voice,” Ravage informed him quietly.

“Who?” Drift asked.

“I’ll introduce you later,” was the only answer Drift got before Ravage slipped away, leaving Drift in the crowd to listen alongside the rest of them.

“When I first came to the Dead End, I was a very, very different mech than the one who stands before you now," Megatron was saying. "I was young and naive. I thought I had all the answers. Then I was shown the fault in my thinking by one of the most admirable people I’ve had the privilege of having met. Perhaps for his own sake, he should have killed me—I had a bounty on my head, something that now seems obvious but at the time I was shocked to hear—but instead, he gave me an opportunity to _learn._ So I came down to the Dead End, and I learned.

“I once described the Dead End as a cautionary tale; ignored, and constantly, quietly, kept in mind. I would not be standing here if it weren’t for all of you; I would not be _standing_ at all. The Senate has sought to silence me at every turn, by whatever means necessary, but it is not my words they fear. The words that made them so desperate to shut me up were _yours_. To them, the Dead End is not a cautionary tale; it is the writing on the wall. _You_ are the ones they could not overcome. _You_ are the proof of their lies, of their callousness, and of their weakness—because in spite of everything, here you stand nonetheless. _You_ are the very spark of the Decepticon Cause.

“I cannot do this without you; that was the first, and most important, takeaway from all that I have learned. The very first mechs I sought to join me were Dead Enders, and they in turn—” he gestured behind him, towards Ravage, who was now sitting beside the stranger with the visor, who’s shoulders two small beastformers were perched on, “—have joined me in demanding a fairer livelihood for us all.

“Know this; the Senate will not be gently persuaded, and there are no limits to the ways in which they will seek to terrify us and force us onto our knees. Change will not be easy, because they have _ensured_ it will not be easy. Change will be disruptive, because they have _ensured_ it will require disruption. Change will be terrifying, because it is acts of terrorism that they have used to abuse and subjugate us.

“The time has come, for the Dead End to no longer be ignored, no longer be reduced to a cautionary tale _,”_ Megatron continued. _“_ Only alongside one another can we ensure none are left behind; miners, Dead Enders, outliers, beastformers; manual, laborer, ‘disposable’; the overlooked, the wronged, the written-off. We are still here. We will not kneel. We will not be disposed of. We are a voice they _cannot silence._ ”

Drift wasn't certain precisely when in the speech it’d begun, but in this moment, he was abruptly aware that Megatron had found him in the crowd, and was now speaking to _him_ specifically. The rest of the crowd was forgotten as Megatron stepped forward, off the stage, and came to stand before him, taking Drift’s hands in his own.

“ _You’ve heard my words_. _You’ve guided my hand. Now I hope you will choose to stand beside me_ ,” Megatron signed, nearly startling Drift — it was unexpected. Megatron hadn’t known to speak hand, last Drift knew. 

“I ask all of you here,” Megatron continued, once more speaking loud enough for the rest to hear. “Will you join the Decepticons? Will you aid me in bringing about a Cybertron where all are one?”

The question was met with a resounding _yes,_ the mechs in the crowd shouting their affirmations to the ceiling. Beneath the cacophony, Drift looked Megatron in the eye.

“Yes,” he said, quietly. 

The look in Megatron’s optics only be described as relief. He gave Drift’s hands a gentle squeeze.

“I have heard much of you,” Megatron stated, speaking to Drift yet addressing the crowd. “I have heard of how the Dead End could not subjugate you, how you in turn protected others from its entropy. You will be the bulwark of the Decepticons, who stands between the Senate and who they wish to harm. More than an obstacle; a protector. They will know you as the cause’s Deadlock.”

He turned his attention to the surrounding onlookers once more, lifting his fist into the air — a gladiator’s pose of victory. “Together, we stand! Together we demand to be heard! Together, we fight, for a new era, for the day when we can lay down our arms and suffer _no longer!!_ ” 

The crowd around them erupted, lifting their fists into the air, cheering, clapping one another on the back, embracing. Some laughed, some cried. Drift stood among them, hand still held in Megatron’s, and felt, for the first time in a long while, that he’d made the right choice, in coming to Kaon. In saying _yes_.

Megatron smiled down at him. Drift smiled back, easy. 

Drift couldn’t prevent the Senate from closing on Ratchet’s clinic. He couldn’t protect them, no matter how hard he’d tried — Fuse, Missit, Chromantic… Gasket. Gasket, who’s memory he kept carved inside his gun; a reminder. He hadn’t had the means. 

Perhaps now he could change that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we've reached the end of _Two Cents_. This fic has been a real treat to write - unexpected, too, considering this was supposed to be a 5+1 short megadrift piece that entirely became it's own thing. 
> 
> I didn't expect the Dead End to come as alive as it did while writing this. This period of time in Drift's life is one we see encompassed in a total of two panels in his miniseries. What ended up happening because of this is I had to assign names, motives, and personalities to a handful of bland generics the comic showed and then some. Probably the greatest surprise in writing this fic have been Missit and Chromantic, who have become such breakout characters in this series, and the love people have shown for those ladies in particular has made me so incredibly happy. This entire fic is probably going to be prone to some editing - I only figured out what this fic was _really_ about in the third chapter, and it shows. There are some scenes I have planned that I intend to add to the first two chapters, and I'll let folks know when that happens.
> 
> I said it on my tumblr but I'll say it here - any of the characters who are original to this fic (Missit, Chromantic, Fuse, Killgauge, Emisshot, etc.) are characters I consider open source. They were created for the purpose of populating the Dead End and making Drift not so alone. If anyone wants to use these characters in their own writing, you're more than welcome to. I would be delighted to see it. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much to all of you who read Two Cents.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [through corrupted lungs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620324) by [rookerrogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rookerrogue/pseuds/rookerrogue)
  * [The Tide, The Fog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482186) by [Anefi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anefi/pseuds/Anefi)




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